


A Season Of Grace

by fictionalaspect



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys in Cages, Can be read as original fic, Fae & Fairies, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Universe, Orphans, Physical Abuse, Seriously so much hurt/comfort, Slave Trade, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where humans and the three faerie slave races--<i>huo, shui</i>, and <i>tua</i>--depend on each other for survival, Brendon is pretty sure his luck is running out. At the last moment, he’s rescued from the traveling slave trader by Jon Walker, scion of the Walker family, now poor and dogged by scandal and suspicious rumors. But life at the Walker farm is better than anything Brendon’s ever experienced, even if Ryan, the Walker’s <i>shui</i>, is slowly dying. Brendon knows he has until Midwinter to save Ryan, or everything will be lost--but can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Season Of Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArsenicJade](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ArsenicJade).



> Repost of a story that was originally written in a gift exchange (with much love) for [ArsenicJade](http://www.tasteofpoison.inkubation.net/index.php). Please note that this is slave-fic, with all the coercion and trauma that that trope implies. Lots of Hurt/comfort. There are mentions of starvation, sickness, orphans, captivity, boys in cages, physical mistreatment, and one main character who wishes for death, at times, but does not in any way actually harm himself.

The sky was a slate gray, with thick clouds hanging oppressively over the small house on the hill. Brendon raised his eyes to the sky, shading them against the wind. He could just make out a small figure in the distance, standing at the edge of the pasture wrapped in a blanket. He caught a glimpse of brown hair, whipped by the wind, and he set off at a dead run across the fields. 

"Ryan!" Brendon called out, his voice lost in the wind. Panic skittered around his chest, settled heavy in his stomach. It was still too cold out for Ryan to be outside for long without danger; even then, when he'd insisted on going out, he'd never wandered so far from the house. 

"Ryan, Ryan," Brendon called, kept calling, until he was near enough that Ryan heard him and turned around. He skidded to a stop at the look in Ryan's eyes; solemn and sad, infinitely limitless. It was a strange look, filled with some indefinable quality that Brendon couldn't quite describe, but that he instantly recognized.

"Oh," Brendon said softly, his tone full of wonder. "It's time?"

"It's time," Ryan said, raising his eyes back to the sky. He smiled, small and quiet, a smile only for himself and the angry clouds above them. Brendon reached out, wrapping Ryan's long fingers in his own. Ryan squeezed back. 

"Can we tell the stories inside?" Brendon asked. "It's still—I was worried. It's still cold. It's not yet spring." 

Ryan looked over at Brendon, then, made eye contact for the first time. He looked as though he was waking up from a deep sleep, and he blinked three times in quick succession. 

"Yes," Ryan said, tugging the blanket closer around him. "Yes, of course. I'm—I just. She was calling to me." Brendon nodded.

"I know," Brendon said, pulling gently on his hand, leading him back up the hill towards the house. "I can hear her, too. Come inside. We'll tell her stories by the fire, this year." 

1.

The fairground was cold, even for Brendon. Normally, he wouldn't even have noticed the chill—there were some small advantages to being _huo_ —but he hadn't eaten in days. His cage was small and cramped, and Brendon huddled closer to the side in search of warmth. There was hay on the bottom, a small concession to the cold, but it wasn't doing much. It had rained that morning, and everything was still soggy and wet. Brendon closed his eyes, listening to the chatter of the market around him. His back ached from his week-old burns, still blistering and barely healed. 

Brendon knew it had been intended to teach him a lesson—"We'll fight fire with fire," the Old Man had said, with a grim determination in his eyes, as though he was performing a solemn duty—but Brendon didn't feel as though he'd changed. He was cold, and hungry, and weaker than he'd been in a long time, but he was pretty sure nothing had been burnt out of him. If cruelty had had the ability to change his character—to make him less impulsive, less headstrong, more befitting a _huo_ —it would have happened long ago. 

"Up," the trader said, rapping at the bars on the top of his cage. Brendon stumbled to his feet, shivering. A man and a woman were standing at the entrance to the caravan, peering curiously in his direction. Brendon tried to smile, to stand tall and proud and look as though he was strong and fit for work. He felt one of the wounds on his back reopen as he did so, and as much as he tried, his smile felt like nothing more than a grimace. 

"He's the only _huo_ you've got?" the man said, looking at Brendon sadly. "He looks sick. We need someone sturdier out here in the wilds."

"Just a few scrapes and bruises," the trader said easily. "He'll mend. He's young and strong, they always bounce back." Brendon watched as the woman shook her head, leaning over to whisper in the man's ear. He listened, nodding silently, and then turned back to the trader. 

"We'll manage," the man said, shaking his head. "Thanks for your time, but I don't think he'll work out." Brendon slumped back down against the bars as they walked away. It hurt to breathe. Every time he shivered, it pulled on his skin—his best method of coping was just to stay as still as possible. 

The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains stretching across the horizon. Brendon wondered how long they'd stay open for, how soon it would be until he could curl up on the floor of his cage and pass out. Sunset came early in the North, and the nights were long and cold. Brendon knew this was his last hope before they turned back South, before they traveled down to the warmer lands beyond the hills. He'd had a fleeting spark of hope when they'd first traveled up this way; he knew that Masters were supposed to be kinder up here, more prone to letting their slaves have a few trappings of autonomy. He'd heard the whispers from the last _tua_ of the Old Man's household; in the North, house-slaves were given their own beds, their own clothing. They were sent to market for their owners and they were never beaten unless they were truly disobedient. 

But Brendon had been here a week, pale and lifeless and shivering, and he knew he wasn't what anyone was looking for. Who was going to buy a slave who would as soon up and die on them as recover? He had stared into the faces of the wind-burned men and women who had come to see him, and he'd known instantly that he was out of luck. 

The trader woke him before dawn the next morning, shoving a bowl of water into Brendon's cage and pulling away the flimsy blanket that he allowed his purchases at night. "Last day," the trader said, raising an eyebrow at Brendon. "Look alive, and maybe you'll get sold." Brendon nodded deferentially, reaching out for the water. It had a thin film of ice on the top, but he pushed down on it until it cracked and then drank it greedily. He allowed himself half of the bowl before pushing it away, setting it carefully to one side of his cage. It would be the only thing he would drink all day; he had to make it last. 

Brendon curled up on his side, keeping his injured back away from the bars. He watched listlessly as a young boy drove a herd of cows towards the market, calling out and clapping two sticks together to keep them in line. The vendors were beginning to set up, to stumble about their stalls and piss and eat before the day's work began. He watched as a tiny girl lugged a bucket of water over to her family's horses, and then proceeded to walk back and forth with armfuls of hay until they had had their fill. She was small, dark hair and dark eyes, and Brendon thought briefly of his sister. It was an old ache, almost forgotten, but in the harsh light of morning it seemed overwhelming. Brendon watched her and wondered if his family would ever find out how and where he had died. 

The day passed slowly, in fits and starts. Brendon dozed in his cage, waking up only to present himself to potential customers. None of them showed an interest, although he watched sadly as an older _tua_ was sold to a family of five. It made sense—this was farm-country, and without a _tua_ in the house to awaken the soil, nothing would grow. 

In the late afternoon, Brendon woke to a young man watching him. Brendon blinked, and struggled to his feet. The trader hadn't noticed him; he was occupied with talking to a tall woman, swaggering and boasting about his travels as she smirked. The young man crept closer. He was short and compact, with a thick beard. His eyes were kind, but Brendon had learned to trust against appearances. 

Brendon waited until the man was looking straight at him, and then he bowed carefully. He wasn't allowed to speak, but he could show the man what he offered. With a flick of his wrist, Brendon summoned up his last remaining reserve of energy and lit a spark. The flame curled in the palm of his hand, and Brendon couldn't help it; he shivered in obvious delight. He didn't know how long he could keep his fire going for, but at least he wouldn't be beaten for wasting his energy. Brendon curled the flame to his chest, and then looked up at the man with hopeful eyes. 

"You look hungry," the man said quietly, ignoring Brendon's display. "How long has it been since they fed you?"

Brendon frowned, his eyes darting over to the trader. He was still occupied with the woman, one hand around her waist even as she leaned over and smacked him for taking liberties. 

"Can you talk?" the man said, still quiet. "Or is it just that you're not allowed to?" Brendon bit his lip. He didn't know what the correct answer was. Something in him wanted to admit that he was starving; logic told him to appear strong and useful. He nodded carefully in answer to the man's question, aware that it wasn't really an answer. 

The man stared at him for a long moment, and then abruptly turned and walked away. Brendon swallowed, and let his flame die out. His body felt so empty; he knew that unless he ate something soon, that was probably the last time he would ever light a spark. Brendon felt a surge of undirected anger, at this man and his stupid questions and his useless interest. He'd wasted his last hope of warmth for nothing. 

 

"Shhh," the man said, shoving the hunk of bread through the back of the bars. Brendon stared in astonishment. He'd fallen asleep after the man had left, too exhausted to keep his eyes open. Now he was staring in confusion as the man pushed the bread underneath his hay, so it wouldn't be visible to the trader. 

"I don't know if I can afford you," the man whispered. "But if I can't—there. It's something." Brendon blinked in surprise. There was a tiny thread of elation starting to bubble in his chest, but he shoved it down. The man looked poor, a threadbare coat and heavily patched work trousers, although he did have an old mare tied up nearby. Her saddle was mended, but carefully polished, and she looked relatively healthy. That was always a good sign, Brendon knew. The worst thing was to be bought by a Master riding an injured horse, because it meant he would be treated no better. 

Brendon watched as the man carefully made his way over to the trader, feigning disinterest. He asked about Brendon's health, about his history and his lineage and his injuries. 

"He's a full-blood, right?" the man said. "He looks a bit mixed to me." 

The trader shrugged. "He can pull a spark," he said. "Don't know much else. He's young, though. Barely eighteen. Don't push him too hard, and he'll heal up on you. They always do." 

The man nodded. "Any chance of negotiating on a price?" the man said. "I'd be willing to pay full, but. I suspect someone had you over when you bought him. I've never seen a spark so weak before."

Brendon held his breath as the trader gave the man a considering look. He wanted to call out that it was just because he was sick and in pain; he was full-blooded _huo_ , not that it mattered in the long run. There were still some who thought it did, though, clinging to old prejudices, and apparently this man was one of them. If it meant food and warmth and a place to sleep, Brendon would take it. 

"I think you're full of it," the trader said eventually. Brendon bit his lip. He'd known not to get his hopes up, he had, but somehow there was still an overwhelming sense of disappointment in his chest. The South. He'd be going back to the South, if he even survived the journey, and there was no way he'd live for long after that. Brendon curled his head into his chest and he was so overwhelmed with his own misery that he barely heard the trader's next words. "But we're leaving in the morning, and I can't abide the extra weight. He's weak, and you're the first person who's shown real interest. I'd be glad to get rid of him. Name your price." 

"Six hundred," the man said easily. The trader shook his head. "I'd be a fool to part with him for that. Paid one thousand silver. No deal, my friend." He looked at the man consideringly. "Eight hundred?"

"Seven, maybe," the man said. "But I'd have to cash in a few bonds around town. Six hundred fifty in cold silver, though." He reached into his pocket, as though to reach for his purse, and Brendon saw the greed in the trader's eyes. He held his breath. 

"Deal," the trader said, after a moment. "Call the banker over, and we'll notarize the sale." 

"Pleasure's all mine," the man said, tipping his hat. "Jon, by the way. Jon Walker. Didn't catch your name." 

"Catcher," the trader said, grinning at Jon. "Miles Catcher."

"Very appropriate," Jon said, after a moment. He paused. "What about him?" he said, thumbing back towards Brendon's cage. "He have a name?"

"Don't know," Catcher said. "You'll have to ask him. He'll talk to you now that you've bought him. Boy," he called out, nodding his head in Brendon's direction. Brendon swallowed nervously. "This's your new owner. Tell him your name, if you have one." 

"Brendon," Brendon croaked out, his voice rusty from lack of use. He hadn't spoken since the Old Man had sold him, and at that point he'd been hoarse from screaming. "It's Brendon, sir." 

"There you go," Catcher said, turning back to Jon. "He does have a name, after all." 

 

Brendon fell to his knees as he was climbing out of the cage. The impact tore open the last of his burns, and he cried out softly in pain. He struggled to his feet as Jon clutched his arm, hoping against hope he wouldn't change his mind. 

"Sure you still want him?" the trader asked, skeptically. Jon nodded, helping Brendon to stand up. "I'm sure," Jon said. "Like you said, a few days of rest and he'll be fine. Here, up you go." He helped Brendon to climb onto his mare, and then pulled himself up behind him. Brendon tried to keep his back straight and firm; he wanted to lean back against Jon, to soak up his body heat, but even if that had been allowed, the wounds on his back were screaming in pain. He shivered, trying hard to stay upright. 

Jon walked the mare slowly through town, guiding her through the crowds of people with ease. It was the last day of the market; townspeople were milling around, closing up their last affairs before the winter drove everyone to their own homesteads. The public houses were lighted up, full of noise and crowds spilling out drunkenly into the street. Brendon thought he saw a group of house-slaves standing outside, a female _shui_ and a few _huo_ , but that was impossible. They had the right coloring—the female tall and fair and delicate, the young men dark and handsome—but Brendon shook his head and wondered if he was becoming delirious. _Shui_ never mixed with _huo_ if they could help it. Brendon knew it was supposed to be more lax up here, but that was just absurd. 

The light faded as they moved out of town. Brendon tried to keep himself awake, to count the number of hoof-beats against the rutted track. He was startled when Jon abruptly stopped a few miles in and climbed down off his horse. Brendon wondered with a sinking feeling if Jon was going to make him walk—if the ride out of town had been only for appearances—but then Jon was pulling off his coat and hat and handing them to Brendon. 

"Had to make sure they didn't see," Jon said hurriedly, wrapping his coat around Brendon's shoulder's. "I've a bit of a reputation at the moment." Brendon blinked at him in astonishment. He wondered how hard he'd have to work in exchange for this kindness; he'd never heard of a Master giving his own clothing to a slave, even if they were as sick as Brendon. 

"How hard can you ride?" Jon said, pulling himself back up and pressing close to Brendon. Brendon's back screamed at the contact, but Jon was warm and he was a solid weight against Brendon's back, propping him up. "We need to get you home. It's not too far, but I don't want to risk you falling off."

"I'm," Brendon croaked, and then cleared his throat and tried again. His head was swimming. "I've ridden before."

"Good," Jon said, digging his heels into the mare's side to force her to pick up the pace. "I'll hold on to you. Spencer should have something waiting at the farm, even if it's cold. We haven't had a _huo_ for a while," Jon said. Brendon wondered what had happened to their last one, but didn't have the courage to ask. From looking at Jon's belongings, his best guess was that he'd been forced to sell him. Jon didn't seem like the type to work his slave to death, but then, you never knew. Brendon knew his life depended on remaining aware of his surroundings, of being able to read his Master's moods and whims, but he was just so _tired_. He didn't have the strength to refuse Jon's kindness. 

It was a long ride in the dark; the wind whipped at his face, and Brendon fought to stay conscious. The countryside was a blur of shapes and forms, a looming dark that seemed populated by all manner of evil things. Brendon wondered again if he was hallucinating. He seemed to see movement in the trees, ominous shapes darting around in the darkness. 

"Almost there," Jon said softly, after an eternity of jostling and bumping, of cold wind tearing at Brendon's face and bringing tears to his eyes. "We're almost there, just hang on." 

 

2\. 

Jon and Spencer were coming in from the fields when Brendon and Ryan returned, Brendon fussing over Ryan and bringing him blankets until Ryan rolled his eyes and pushed him away. He seemed to have come back from being called by the _Shui_ , but Brendon knew she would call him back, stronger and stronger until her story was told. Mira had never remembered to eat or drink when the _Shui_ was calling her; Ryan was still weak, no matter what he said. Brendon pulled a loaf of bread from the baskets hanging near the stove, warming it on the grate above the fire. He was planning on cooking while they listened, preparing the evening meal as the day slipped into twilight, but he wanted something extra, just in case. He dipped a pitcher into the barrel of water he'd drawn from the well, setting it by Ryan's chair by the fire.

"I'm not going to keel over in the next six hours," Ryan grumbled. "You don't have to fuss. I've done this before, you know." 

Spencer reached over and flicked him in the nose. "Hush," Spencer said, raising an eyebrow at Ryan. "He's right, you know. You always forget to eat once it's started." 

"Do not," Ryan said, but he stopped protesting as Brendon hovered. 

"It's time, then," Jon said, his eyes worried. "Are you sure you'll be able to—"

"I'm fine," Ryan said, smiling a little at Brendon. "I promise." Brendon ducked his head, blushing. Ryan insisted on giving full credit for his recovery to Brendon, but Brendon knew it was more than that. Ryan continually refused to recognize his own strength, his own tenacity in holding on. Sometimes it bothered Brendon, but he was starting to realize that was just the way Ryan was—he saw strength in others, but he had yet to see it in himself. 

"The plowing's been done?" Brendon asked, when he was finally satisfied that everything was ready. Spencer and Jon had been working continuously, in the hope that Ryan would hear the call. This would only be the start of the rainy season, but it was harder to get everything ready once she had been called. Brendon knew she would hurl through the lands like a hurricane, bringing the rain in a torrent of lightening and storms. 

"All except the west pasture, and that can wait," Jon said. "We're ready for her." 

"Good," Brendon said. Spencer had pulled out Ryan's small loom onto the table, untangling knotted threads with deft fingers; Jon was sharpening the smaller sickles with an iron file. There would be no more outside work today. Brendon had stocked the wood pile a few days earlier. He unhooked a few strands of herbs from over the fireplace, and carried them to the table, with his mortar and pestle. They would work inside while Ryan told his tales, spinning and weaving them into the air, calling the _Shui_ to their small farm. She would push back the winter winds and bring the rains, leaving in her wake the gentle warmth of a Northern spring, followed by the clear warm summer sun. 

When he began to speak, Ryan's voice was low and soft. His words came tumbling out, the mark of a true _shui_ , the storytellers. Brendon knew that Ryan wasn't constructing the story, so much as telling it; he would weave the tale, different each year but still the same. He would listen to the winds, and to the strange siren song of the _Shui_ , and the story would touch them all. It was the one time that the slaves in the South could feel proud of who they were, where they had come from. Brendon remembered the strange pleasure of being allowed to sit in the great hall, of washing his face and combing his hair and sitting with his mother and his sisters as they listened to the _shui_ of the manor weave the story of them all. Here, Jon sat with them at the table, working just as they worked. Here, for the first time, Brendon would listen to the story and feel unafraid of the days to come. 

"The _Tua_ came from the South," Ryan began. "She danced on the earth, leaving a trail of grain in her footsteps. She danced under the sun, with her hair wild and her nails long and her eyes emerald green. Her skin was rough like bark, and when she met the men and the women of the forest, she fell in love..."

3.

Someone was shaking him.

"Brendon," a voice said. "Brendon, wake up. I—you did say his name was Brendon, didn't you? Seriously, this shouldn't be this hard."

"That's what he said it was," Jon's voice answered. "Maybe he was lying."

"Maybe," the other voice. "I wouldn't be surprised." Brendon slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he was aware of was the warmth; the air in the room was chilled, but he was lying under a heavy mess of blankets. Brendon couldn't remember the last time he'd been so warm. 

His vision swam for a moment, and then focused. He was in a cabin; small and spare, but clean. A young man with blue eyes was giving him an unimpressed look. He was holding a plate that contained slices of bread and a hunk of what looked like homemade butter. 

" _Finally_ ," the young man said. "I was beginning to think you were done for. I've been trying to wake you up for two days." 

"I'm sorry, Master," Brendon whispered automatically. The young man was probably a house-servant, but Jon was still standing in the middle of the room. Brendon wondered how long he'd have to work to make up for passing out. 

"Hey, hey," Jon said, as the other young man rolled his eyes. "We're not in public," the young man said. "Save that for later, okay? I'm Spencer. And you need to eat, my friend."

"What?" Brendon croaked, looking back and forth between them in confusion. "But I—"

"Brendon," Jon said quietly, moving towards the bed. "I know you're used to how they do things in the South, but things are a little different up here."

"And especially in this house," Spencer said, smirking a little. "I'm pretty sure I haven't called Jon Master since I was, oh, about seven."

"Oh," Brendon said. "I'm sorry, I. What should I call you?" He didn't dare to look up at Jon's face. Just his luck, to be sold somewhere where he had no knowledge of the local customs. He wondered how many ways he'd already managed to cause offense. 

"Just call me Jon," Jon said, smiling a little. "That's what everyone else calls me."

"Or you can call him 'lazy'," Spencer said, rolling his eyes again. "Get out, Jon. Go get some work done. I'm fine here."

"I just wanted to—"

"Go," Spencer said, but there was a touch of fondness in the harried tone. "If I can take care of Ryan, I can take care of him." Jon nodded, smiling at Spencer for a moment, and then shaking his head and leaving the room. 

"I'm sure he really is very concerned," Spencer said, in a stage whisper. "But we're also harvesting the first of the wheat fields today, and Jon hates our old sickle. If I let him, he'd hang around here all day."

"I heard that," Jon called out, through the doorway.

"You heard nothing," Spencer called back, grinning. Brendon blinked. His smile was wide, and lit up his whole face, and suddenly something connected. 

"You're— _tua_ ," Brendon said, completely confused. This Spencer person was—there was no denying it, with his blue eyes and freckles and his sly good humor. But he'd been treating the Master like an old friend, and instead of working the fields and calling in the harvest, he was sitting here telling the Master what to do and attempting to feed Brendon slices of bread. Brendon was utterly baffled. 

"Got it in one," Spencer said, breaking off another small piece of bread, dipping it in the butter, and handing it to Brendon. 

"But you're not—he's—you're," Brendon stammered. None of this was making sense. Spencer was a _slave._ "I don't understand." 

"Like Jon said," Spencer said. "Things are a little different here. You'll get used to it."

 

Spencer had cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up, but the first time Brendon attempted to stand he still cried out in pain. He bit his lip afterwards, terrified, but Spencer just frowned and rushed over to help him. 

"What are you doing?" Spencer said. "You should be resting. You're no use to anyone like this. Don't tell me you're trying to start working again so soon?"

"I can light the fire," Brendon said quietly. "Please. After all you've—I'm fine, really." 

"You're really not," Spencer said, but he sounded unsure. Brendon saw the opening and decided to take it.

"The master—Jon said you'd been without a _huo_ for a long time," Brendon said quietly, his face tilted down towards the floor. He still couldn't quite get up the nerve to make eye contact; he had always been taught to address the other ranks of slaves with his face turned towards the earth. It was the price of being _huo,_ of being the lowest of the low. It was a rule he'd broken constantly, but here and now, in this strange new place, he felt himself falling into old habits. 

"He said that?" Spencer said, frowning suddenly. "What else did he say?"

"Just that, _tua,_ " Brendon said. "But you must have been without fire for a long time. Please, let me help." Brendon saw Spencer glance towards the back of the room. He looked as though he was concerned, and tempted, but trying not to show it. 

"But it's going to make you weaker," Spencer said. "That's really not going to help anything."

"That was the most food I've eaten in days," Brendon said truthfully. Spencer had fed him one whole slice of bread with cold butter, and then given him some water to drink. Brendon's stomach already felt nauseous, but he was hoping he could at least keep it down until after he'd gotten the fire going. Maybe it would even stay down entirely, although Brendon wasn't counting on it. 

Spencer paused, his mouth compressing into a thin line. He glanced back again, and then sighed. "If you're sure," Spencer said hesitantly, and Brendon nodded. He carefully shuffled forwards to the hearth, and knelt down in front of it. It held a few half-burnt logs, cold and dark. 

Brendon took a deep breath, pushing down the nausea and clearing his mind. He hoped he hadn't been lying; he thought he had enough strength to start the fire, but he wasn't sure. He reached out his hands and placed them on the cold log. It took a few moments, but then, all of a sudden, he felt the sparks rise up; they settled along the tips of his fingers, and Brendon bowed his head. "Go," he whispered softly, and then all of a sudden the logs caught fire, crackling merrily and sizzling as they were quickly heated from the inside. Brendon kept his hands in the fire until his natural immunity started to wear off, until he could feel the heat from the flames. 

"Thank you," Spencer said quietly. Brendon nodded. He tried to stand up, but as soon as he was on his feet he was suddenly hit by a wave of dizziness. "Whoa—okay," Spencer said, catching him with one arm around his shoulders. "Okay. Now you're definitely going back to bed."

"I'm fine," Brendon tried to say, but the nausea was rising again. He swallowed heavily. Spencer's arm was firm around his shoulders, and Brendon leaned on him helplessly as they slowly crossed the room. "I don't know what I'm going to do with two of you around," Spencer mumbled, his voice kind. "That's it. Just get back in bed, okay? No more heroics."

"Two of us?" Brendon said, but Spencer was already turning away. "Just sleep," Spencer said, brushing a hand over his forehead, and Brendon felt that strange tugging sensation, the calm of the earth calling him down and cradling him. It was _tua_ magic, strong and comforting, and he gratefully let himself fall. 

The second time Brendon woke up, it was to see Spencer's back turned towards him. There was a second bed that had been pulled into the middle of the room, near the fire, and Spencer was sitting cross-legged next to it. 

"Come on," Spencer said softly. "Ryan. Don't do this, you need to eat."

"There isn't enough," a quiet voice said, and Brendon shifted on the pillow so he could see who else was talking. There was someone in the bed, another boy with dark eyes and light brown hair. He was thin and pale, and he was shivering. 

"But it's warm," Spencer said. "I know you're worried, but we'll be fine. We'll get through the winter, you'll see. It's only October. Please, Ryan." Spencer's voice was surprisingly gentle. 

"Only if you have half," Ryan said. He lifted a hand from underneath the covers, and it shone with a faint glimmer. It was ice, Brendon realized with a shock. It was a thin coating of ice on his hand. 

"One-third," Spencer said, and the boy paused a moment before nodding. He took the bowl and lifted it to his lips, and the movement caused him to sit up a little. Now that Brendon could see him better, it was obvious. He had the fine, delicate features of a full-blooded _shui,_ that strange grace to his movements. Brendon watched him, fascinated. 

Brendon had been taught never to talk to _shui,_ only to obey them. _Shui_ and _huo_ were both house-slaves, but even Brendon knew they were as different as night and day, in status as well as in temperament. They never mixed when they could help it. Even so, Brendon had always been drawn to them with an odd sort of single-mindedness. It had drove his mother to distraction, and more than once had ended in beatings. 

He was struck by a sudden memory, one he hadn't thought of in years; he remembered being a small child, trailing at the skirts of the _shui_ of the estate, a young woman named Mira. Once in a while she used to smile at him and take his hand, leading him out to the garden. She would press her finger to her lips, smiling at him, and Brendon would watch, fascinated, as she painted spiderwebs with shimmering water droplets, fragile works of art that would fade as the sun rose higher in the sky. Brendon remembered her as an adult, vastly older and more worldly than he was at eight, but he knew rationally that she couldn't have been more than sixteen. _Shui_ never lived very long. 

Ryan paused for a moment, swallowing before handing the bowl back to Spencer. "Now you," Ryan said, watching him carefully. Spencer sighed, and took a tiny sip. Brendon watched as Ryan smiled, small and fond. "That doesn't count," Ryan said. 

"Does too," Spencer said, and took another small sip. "See? Almost gone. Now you."

"Hmm," Ryan said, still smiling. He took the bowl back, and continuing drinking. "It's so warm," Ryan said softly, after a moment. "It's helping, I think. But Jon still shouldn't have done it."

"I don't think he meant to," Spencer said, sighing. "After Tom—you know what he's like. And he's so worried about you—"

"I'll be fine," Ryan said, coughing a little. "It's just a cold, Spencer." Spencer was silent for a long moment, and Brendon held his breath. It seemed impossible that Spencer wouldn't understand the obvious; Brendon could tell as easily as anyone that Ryan was much, much sicker than that. But Spencer stayed silent, and eventually took the bowl back when Ryan handed it to him.

"Yeah Ry," Spencer said, sounding infinitely tired. "I know. Just a cold."

4.

"And so the _Tua_ left," Ryan said, speaking softly and sadly. "She left her children, with their blue eyes and brown hair, the children of the wheat and sky. She held them each in her arms and then she danced away, never to return. But she left them with three gifts, ones they would pass on to their children, and their children's children. They found they could call the crops from the fields. They could work her magic through the soil. They suddenly knew the magic of sleep, and of the night, of resting quiet and dark in her embrace. They were deft with their hands, spinning and weaving the silk and the flax and the linen they gathered—"

"Oh my god, this part always goes on forever," Spencer muttered, and Brendon grinned. "Every year, every time, he says we have three gifts, and then he comes up with _sixteen_."

"It's not his fault you're talented," Brendon whispered. "You're the first in the hierarchy. You're responsible for our food and clothing. That's kind of important."

"Right, but he doesn't have to go on about it," Spencer whispered. Across from them, Jon snorted. He had moved on to cleaning Brendon's knives, sharpening them with precise strikes angled across his whetstone. "At least you get a good bit," Jon said. "Humans' only claim to fame is that we exist, and that we have a thing for conquering and subduing other races." 

"But you get that whole bit at the end," Brendon said. "You know. After he finishes with talking about the _Shui._ About how you're supposed to run the world and the _Shui_ , _Huo_ , and _Tua_ picked your race to rule us so we wouldn't get out of line." 

"The what?" Jon and Spencer said at the same time. Brendon blinked.

"You know," he said slowly. "The part at the end. That's—he doesn't tell that part?"

"I've never heard that in my life," Jon said. "Is that a Southern thing?"

"Really," Brendon said. "Maybe that was just in my house, then." It didn't seem so far-fetched. Mira, for all her kind-heartedness, had lived in fear of the Master. With good reason. Brendon wondered how badly she had been treated in order to change the story, to push past the words flowing out and twist them into something that would please her audience. 

Ryan was still talking, oblivious to the conversation happening next to him, speaking mostly to the fire. He was nearing the end of the recitation, and Brendon silently repeated the words to himself as Ryan spoke the final litany for the _Tua_. This was one of the parts that never changed, that carried as much weight as anything in the whole story. It was Brendon's favorite part. 

"Bithidh an raon air a tuiIeachadh le feur ùr," Ryan said, speaking now in the old language. "Bithidh siùil gheala nan sgìtheach sair an togail ris a' ghaoith." 

_The fields will be flooded with fresh grass. The white sails of the hawthorn will rise to the wind._

"Tua, we call you," Ryan said. Brendon whispered the words with him, smiling to himself. "Come back to the Earth, and bring the _Shui_ in your arms."

5.

"What on earth are you doing?" Spencer said, standing completely still in the doorway. Brendon froze. He wondered if this was the moment when everything changed, when everyone's true faces would be revealed, but Spencer just continued to stare at him in utter confusion. 

"I'm sorry," Brendon said softly, setting his spoon back in the porridge. It had been two weeks since he'd arrived, and other than light the fire, he hadn't been allowed to do anything except lie in bed and accept Spencer's bowls of broth and plates of boiled vegetables. It was a strange sort of reversal. Brendon was used to being forced to work, even when he was tired or in pain; now, it seemed, the one thing he had been purchased to provide was forbidden. "I just wanted to—I'm feeling okay. I figured I should just—start working again."

"Is your back even healed?" Spencer said. His voice was concerned. Brendon frowned, because why should it matter if he was healed? He could work just as well through the pain. Ryan obviously did, sitting in his bed and taking care of the household correspondence, or weaving and knitting when his hands weren't quite capable of holding a pen. Brendon had spent the last two weeks watching him quietly, carefully, wanting to offer to help but knowing he couldn't. He didn't know how to read or write, and as _huo_ , he'd never been taught how to spin. He was a kitchen slave, the absolute lowest in the hierarchy—as the Old Man had always reminded him, in a satisfied tone—and learning things outside his station "only led to troubles down the line." 

So Brendon watched silently, fidgeting in his bed and pretending to sleep. He listened to Ryan's labored breathing, and his constant coughing, and thought about all the herbs he knew which might help. He listened to the soft scratch of Ryan's quill along the parchment, to his quiet curses when he couldn't quite make his hands do what he wanted them to. He listened to Spencer and Ryan's conversations, made up of half-words and mysterious phrases. They spoke in a language that didn't need words, but they used them anyway. Brendon knew enough to recognize that they had a deep friendship, the sort that only came from a shared history.

He'd gleaned snippets of information during his silent vigils. That Ryan and Spencer had been bought by Jon's father around the same time, when they were both very young. That Ryan had arrived at the house starving and sick, barely able to walk, the victim of yet another Master who didn't much care for the health of his slaves. That Spencer had taken him under his wing instantly, even under the regime of Jon's father, who was less a cruel Master than he was simply indifferent. Master Walker considered his slaves to be property, pure and simple. 

That when Jon was seventeen, Ryan fifteen, and Spencer only fourteen, Jon had vowed that one day things would be different. 

"Brendon," Spencer said again, and Brendon blinked. He'd become distracted again. He bowed his head in apology, before he remembered that he'd been told he didn't have to. Brendon couldn't help it—there were just always so many things to _think_ about, so many different things to notice. He'd always been terrible at keeping his mind on what was in front of him. 

"I'm fine," Brendon said, shaking his head. He looked up at Spencer, and took a deep breath before chancing a small smile. Everyone smiled at him here, except Ryan. Brendon had the sense that you had to earn Ryan's smiles, that trust was not something that Ryan gave freely. But Jon had assured him it was okay, over and over again, and so Brendon let himself answer Spencer honestly. He had to test the limits sometime, and he really was going crazy just lying in bed all day. 

"I'm fine, honestly," Brendon said, picking up the spoon again. "I, I've had much worse than this and still worked before. I barely even notice it. But I can't sit in bed anymore, or I'm going to go crazy. And you're—I know you're supposed to be out in the fields, but you're here all the time, and cooking and taking care of—" Brendon broke off, glancing over at the bed near the fire, but Ryan was sleeping. 

"People," Brendon finished. "It's not your job, Spencer. Let me help. This is what I do." Brendon cast his eyes down, stirring the porridge carefully so it wouldn't burn to the sides of the pot. There was a tightness in his chest, a sort of undefined fear, that grew the longer Spence was silent. He'd miscalculated, then. Brendon braced himself for a blow, and then he heard the unexpected sound of laughter. 

"Finally," Spencer gasped out, laughing in delight. "Oh, _finally_. I knew there had to be someone in there." Brendon blinked at him in astonishment. 

"You're so—I know it's just how you were raised," Spencer said, grinning widely at him. "And how you've been treated. I'm not blaming you. But all this time, you've been so quiet, and so polite, and I was hoping to _Tua_ that they hadn't _really_ broken you. And they haven't," Spencer said, still laughing. He smiled broadly at Brendon. "They obviously haven't, if you're willing to completely ignore my instructions because you're _bored_." 

"I don't think I'm capable of being broken," Brendon admitted ruefully, unthinking. "They tried. Many times. I'm too easily distractable, and I'm too head-strong, and I'm too impulsive." 

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Spencer said, shaking his head. "It isn't, Brendon. Not here." 

Brendon turned back to the porridge. He still didn't believe Spencer—he _couldn't—_ but at least Spencer hadn't hit him. It was well within his rights, but he hadn't. It was something. He took another deep breath.

"Before the frost comes," Brendon said, "If I'm to take over the cooking. I want to go outside and look for herbs and things, to dry. I know you have a few already harvested, but I know of hundreds. Some of them might not grow here, but I'd like to try." Brendon bit his lip at he looked over at Ryan, a small lump under the covers. He'd slept through the entire conversation, loud as it was. There was a thin sheen of ice on his cheek, despite the roaring fire. "It might help," Brendon said, awkwardly. "For, um. Ryan. I might be able to help him."

Spencer nodded firmly. His expression had sobered at Brendon's words. "Anything," Spencer said. "Anything you need, you just ask me. I'll show you where the limits of our property lie. If you think you can help him—"

"I can't promise anything," Brendon said. 

"Even a hope is better than nothing," Spencer said. He looked down at Ryan, and then shook his head. "He's dying," Spencer said softly, even though Ryan was fast asleep. There was a slight catch in his voice, one that Brendon had to strain to hear. "You know that, right? It might be that nothing you can do will help."

"Just let me try," Brendon said. "I can't promise, but—at least I can try."

-

From then on, Spencer left him alone in the kitchen. It made something ease up in Brendon's chest, tight from days and weeks of being forced into new and unaccustomed situations. It was strange; Brendon had always dreamed of a house like this, where he wasn't beaten and treated like he was nothing, but now that it seemed to be a reality, he found he couldn't relax. Everything was unfamiliar. The patterns of life he had become so used to were gone. 

It helped to be left alone, to do the work he'd been raised to do in silence. Brendon's space had always been at the hearth, in the comforting task of cooking and mixing and cleaning. Near the quiet warmth of the fire, the house silent around him except for the scratching of Ryan's quills, he felt himself able to breathe again. 

They still hadn't spoken to one another. Ryan seemed content to be left alone, and stared at Brendon with a level gaze when Brendon attempted to make conversation. Brendon felt acutely aware of his status as an outsider, as one who had been brought into the house without Ryan's consent. As _shui_ , Ryan had the final say in household matters, but he didn't seem inclined to interfere with Brendon's new duties. He simply looked at him, quiet and careful, and said nothing. 

It was a full week before Brendon had a chance to even think about going off to pick herbs. Spencer, for all his kindness, hadn't been very good at managing the kitchen. It seemed as though he'd been at it a long time, far longer than he should have been. The hearth was black with soot, and the stocks of herbs were almost empty. Several bags of grain had been nibbled at and left to spill on to the floor, and Brendon was constantly chasing the mice and rats away in the mornings. There was mold in the barley. The dishes were in need of soaking. Nothing had been canned for the winter, except a few dozen jars of pickled vegetables and some small, hard Northern cherries. 

Brendon worked from morning until night, even going so far as to keep the hearth dark one day, so he could clean the grit out of the tiles. It was satisfying, mindless work. He felt a pang of worry, in the late afternoon, when he realized that Ryan had slept all day and barely touched his porridge. Brendon compromised by sneaking out to the barn and stealing one of the traveling lanterns, the large ones that were made to hang from carriages to light the way. Jon obviously didn't have a hansom cab, if he ever had, but the lamp was still in usable condition. Brendon removed the wick, leaving the flap open at the top to let in air. He filled it with small tinder from the hearth-box, and lit it with a touch of his fingers, setting it on the small table beside Ryan's bed. It wasn't much, but it was something. 

Jon lingered the next morning after breakfast, hovering as Brendon picked up the dishes and placed them in the bin for washing. Brendon was nervous, his fingers shaking slightly, until Jon glanced over at Ryan and lowered his voice. 

"Spencer said—he said you've a knowledge of herbs," Jon said. "He's out in the East Pasture today, and I'm just cleaning the stables and polishing the tack. I thought maybe—if you wouldn't mind the company. I could show you around the fields."

Brendon blinked in astonishment. "Um," he said eloquently. "I. If you're sure?" It seemed unthinkable that Jon would be the one offering to show Brendon around, like a stable-boy or a gardener. Brendon felt in that moment that he would never quite get used to the way things seemed to work in the North. 

"I like walking around," Jon admitted, after a few moments of awkward silence. "It's good for me to check the fences, to see what's in need of repair. And, um. I hate cleaning the stables." Brendon smiled a little in response, looking down at the washing. 

"We'll go after mid-day?" Jon said, hopeful, and Brendon nodded. He'd been planning to assess the state of the root-cellar, but the winter was fast approaching and the vegetables would keep. If he was going to collect the herbs they'd need for the coming season, he'd need to spend several days out in the fields, and he needed to do it soon. The air had been chill at night since he'd arrived, but now the cold had spread to the mornings and evenings as well. Yesterday, he thought he'd seen the barest hint of frost on the grass in the morning. 

Brendon spent the morning taking stock of the strings of herbs still in the pantry. It was a small and sad array. There were still several strings of garlic, braided into long strands, but not much else. Someone had obviously collected a heap of thistle at some point, and laid it on shelf to dry. The herbs from the herb garden still remained, dry and powdery to the touch; mint and lavender, thyme and rosemary and parsley. But there was nothing in the way of medicines; no wild primrose, no mullein, no willow bark, no slippery elm. Brendon wondered how on earth they managed to survive each year, if they didn't even know where to find the most common remedies. He wondered what had happened to their last _huo._

Jon came to find him at mid-day, and after setting another bowl of porridge by Ryan's bed, Brendon followed him out into the sun. Ryan had looked up at him as he left, through his eyelashes. Brendon wished he knew what Ryan was thinking. Was he happy that Brendon was finally leaving the house? Did he wonder where Brendon was going? Did he even care that Brendon existed at all?

Jon took him on a meandering path through the fields, ringed at the edges with thick forests dense with fir and pine. Spencer had given him a pair of his old shoes, with an embarrassed apology that they couldn't afford better. Brendon didn't really care. He didn't tell Spencer that he'd never owned shoes in his life, and today they were a silent blessing every time his feet touched the cold ground. 

Brendon had slung three canvas bags over his shoulder, and now, whenever Jon stopped, he Ryant to the ground to inspect the local flora. He found a large patch of hyssop right by the back gate, and then a stand of stinging nettle and coltsfoot just to the right. Licorice root was easy to spot in the East pasture; Brendon broke the stems off the flowers, and then dug up the milky-white roots with his hands. There were a few Willow trees farther in, along with a stand of Slippery Elm. Brendon carefully peeled off the bark, gentle and sure, making sure not to detach the inside lining. It would be boiled with water and made into a tea that soothed sore throats and quieted coughs. It was easy work, even as his legs and back began to ache. Wormwood as a vermifuge, along with Black Walnut. Meadowsweet for fever. Sunflower seeds, dry and shriveled, for pain. 

Jon seemed interested in Brendon's work, even though Brendon couldn't quite understand why. He would wander back and forth, always asking what Brendon was collecting, what it could be used for. He seemed astonished that so many useful plants grew on his own lands. Brendon was privately beginning to wonder if Jon wasn't just a bit dense when he paused, hands in his pockets, looking upward at the sky. 

"Tom was never good with plants," Jon said, as though he was telling a secret. "He should have been. He was a full-blood, or at least, we think he was. No one was really quite sure."

Brendon paused, his hands still clutching a strand of nettle. He wasn't quite sure what to say, so he said nothing. After a while, Jon continued. 

"He was really bad at almost everything," Jon said, with a smile. "He burned the porridge more times than I can count. One time he actually left it so long that it cracked and hardened, and we broke a hole in the brass trying to chip it out. I think we must have been twelve or thirteen at the time." Jon stared out at the fields as he talked, as though he was speaking not only to Brendon, but to the rest of his property. 

Brendon nodded, licking his lips. He knew he had the right to ask—or at least, Jon had assured him that he did. That he could ask questions, and if they didn't want to answer, they would at least tell him why. That no one would beat him, or hurt him in any way for being curious. "Who was Tom?" Brendon asked softly, sitting back on his heels. 

"Tom was—someone special," Jon replied, swallowing hard. "We grew up together. My father bought him when we were both two years old. Well, he bought him and his mother, but she died soon after. And then there was just Tom and I, and my mother. Our _tua_ was a woman named Patience; she came with my mother when she married my father. And our _shui_ was a young man named Ambrose. But suddenly the only _huo_ we had was Tom, and he was still a toddler," Jon said, grinning slightly at Brendon. "So my mother scraped up her savings, and went to town to find someone who could at least come and light the fire in the mornings. My father said it didn't make sense to buy another." 

Brendon nodded. He had the sense that he was hearing only bits and pieces of the story, that Jon was telling the parts that mattered most to him. 

"And then she just—raised us together," Jon said. "She didn't believe in treating people differently. My father hated it, but someone had to look after Tom, and she took it upon herself. So he wasn't quite—he wasn't quite _huo_ , not really," Jon said. He shook his head. "Or maybe he was too much _huo,_ in the end." 

"I'm sorry," Brendon said, preemptively, because he knew how this story ended. He could tell from the quiet sadness in Jon's voice, the sense of inevitability that carried the story along. "How—how long ago did he pass on?"

"Oh," Jon said, turning to him in surprise. "Oh, I—no. Tom's still alive. I set him free."

Brendon stared at Jon in astonishment. Slaves weren't set free. You were born a slave, and you died one, and there was no way Jon had just said that—but he was still talking, still continuing on.

"There was a girl," Jon said, "and—I won't bore you with the details. I'm sure you can imagine. Tom never listened to anyone, not really. I'm not sure he ever listened to me. He was my best friend, but in the end, he was going to do what he wanted. So there was a girl, Elizabeth, and then there was a baby, and when the daughter of the Magistrate is suddenly pregnant and the baby is born as _huo,_ in flames—well," Jon said. "You know how it goes."

"Right," Brendon said, still utterly unable to comprehend what Jon was saying. It seemed completely impossible, and yet Jon was relating the tale as fact, as though it happened all the time. As though the daughter of a Magistrate would even look twice at a house-slave, let alone keep the child. 

"The country of Terokia, to the west, doesn't keep slaves," Jon says. "Maybe you've never even heard of it. I know I hadn't. But Ryan found out, somehow, and he insisted that Tom leave. That Tom try and make a break for it, even though the Magistrate's guards were waiting for him at the end of our road. The last time I saw him, he was heading west into the forest. Elizabeth was going to meet him there, with the baby. She'd slipped out a few days earlier under her family's nose. I think he made it," Jon said, quietly. And then, "I hope he made it." 

"Oh," Brendon said, softly. And then, because he couldn't help himself, because he was so overwhelmingly curious—"I—why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're out here to help Ryan," Jon said. "I know you are. But he thinks he brought it on himself. He was the one who insisted that Tom leave. He knew what might happen, without him here to light the fires. I don't know if he wants to get better," Jon said. "Sometimes, I think he's already given up hope. That he's made his choice, and now he's just waiting for the end."

6.

"What time is it?" Ryan said, blinking in confusion.

"Time to eat," Brendon said, hiding a smile. He set the bowl of stew down in front of Ryan, and Ryan picked up the spoon and started eating with quick, precise motions. Brendon was used to this part, but it was still gratifying. Ever since he'd been healed, his appetite had returned with a vengeance. Spencer had assured him that this was normal, but it was still strangely comforting to watch Ryan attack a bowl of food as if his life depended on it. 

Brendon served himself and the others, and they sat back down to eat. It wasn't anything fancy; the last of their supplies, boiled and seasoned, and a bit of stock and meat from one of the chickens. Brendon had been a little more generous than normal with the vegetables—they had two more weeks, give or take, and then spring would come. Without Ryan—Brendon shook his head silently to himself. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about it, about what would have happened if Ryan had left them. But now, sitting here by the fire, it seemed to hit him with overwhelming force, a bodily sensation of need and loss and just how close they'd all come to losing everything. 

"You okay?" Jon whispered, nudging Brendon. There was no real need to whisper, except that Spencer and Ryan were talking about something in between large bites of the stew, laughing a little as Spencer brought up some long-forgotten memory of past Storytellings. Brendon swallowed firmly, and nodded. "I'm fine," Brendon said, smiling a little at Jon. "I was just—thinking. But I'm fine."

"Okay," Jon said. 

"What were you thinking about?" Ryan said. His eyes were clear and perceptive, and he was looking at Brendon steadily. Apparently Brendon hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought. 

"Nothing," Brendon said, shaking his head. "Nothing at all, just—happy that we have enough. That we made it through the winter." 

Ryan nodded, saying nothing. But underneath the table, Brendon felt a foot nudging against his own. Ryan curled his foot around Brendon's ankle under the table, anchoring him in place. Brendon coughed a little. He hid the sudden smile that threatened to break free in his bowl.

There were still old rules drilled into him, ones that Brendon didn't quite think he'd be able to get rid of. Jon and his kindness had gone a long way, but Brendon still startled at odd things, still bowed when he was nervous. He knew that Jon and Spencer understood about him and Ryan, understood that there was something there, something hard to name. A connection between both of them, in spite of everything. 

But as much as Ryan had tried, in his own way, to show affection to Brendon in front of the others, it still made Brendon seize up. Slaves in the South never showed affection in front of their Masters; it was too dangerous. Brendon had grown up watching married couples jerk away from each other at the first sign of footsteps; had watched as husbands were sold into mining camps and wives were tossed out into the cold for a minor infraction. Jon wasn't like that—and would never be like that—but old habits were hard to break.

"She's on her way," Ryan said thoughtfully, when his bowl was almost empty. "I'll need to start again soon." Brendon looked over to see that Ryan's eyes were indeed slightly glazed, already looking through Brendon and not quite at him. 

"She can wait," Spencer said. "Finish your stew." Ryan snorted in amusement. 

"There'll be more later," Brendon said, setting his own bowl aside. "I'm making bread this afternoon. I've a few things laid away for the occasion." Jon and Ryan raised an eyebrow at him curiously; Spencer grinned. 

It had seemed silly, at the time; as much as the Storytelling was a joyous and comforting occasion, it wasn't a holiday. The food was the same as always—you just made more of it, since everyone in the house would be attending. But having Ryan healthy and strong for the occasion had made Brendon feel like a celebration was coming, and so he'd snuck out one morning and bartered for a few things from nearby homesteads. The Ways' _huo,_ Frank, had been willing to trade a slab of fresh cheese for some of Brendon's dried herbal stock, and from the Wentz homestead—although god only knew where she'd gotten them—Ashlee had traded him four oranges for the rest of the chicken Brendon had killed the day before. Brendon had it on good authority (from Spencer, who had caught on to his plan) that both Jon and Ryan loved oranges. He was looking forward to their reactions. 

"It's time," Ryan said, after a few last bites of food and one last gentle press of his foot against Brendon's calf. "She's here. And she's getting sort of impatient with me."

"Oh, is she?" Spencer said. " _Well_ then." Ryan reached over and flicked him on the nose. "I don't bother you when you're calling in the harvest," Ryan said. "Let me work in peace, thank you." 

"I'm just concerned she doesn't have your best interests at heart," Spencer said, entirely straightfaced. Ryan laughed, but he was already sounding far-away. Brendon stood up, getting ready to clean up after the meal, but Jon stopped him. 

"Let me," Jon said, gathering up the bowls. "You work hard enough. Sit and relax."

"But—" Brendon said, frowning. 

"I realize that no one in their right mind would let me near the hearth," Jon said. "But I'm perfectly capable of washing dishes." Brendon opened his mouth, and then shut it. 

It was one of those moments again. Where he could protest, could say that it was his duty and not Jon's, and no one would argue with him about it out of a sense of kindness. Where they would let him continue to work as he always had, if it seemed that that was what Brendon wanted. Where he could also sit back and just let Jon work and—oh, it was scary, it made that feeling rise up in Brendon's chest, faint but familiar. It made him feel sick inside. But Brendon also knew it was only fear, the ghost of fear—Jon wouldn't hurt him. It wasn't a trick, or a ploy; it was simple kindness. Sometimes Brendon thought that was the most terrifying thing of all.

"Okay," Brendon said, after a long pause. "I'll just—okay." Jon smiled at him a little, and then began to fill the washbasin. 

"The _Huo_ and the _Shui_ were sisters," Ryan said, into the sudden silence. "Born of the same sun, the same sky, but as different as night and day. They held the world in their arms, and they grew up in the chaos of the lightening and the wind, of each trying to impose her will on the other. They loved each other deeply, but it was not enough, and their arguments threatened to take the world down with them. 

"And so one morning the _Huo_ left, gathering up the sparks of her hearth with both hands, saying it was her duty as the elder sister to save them both. And the _Shui_ set out to follow her, determined to bring her back. But the _Huo_ covered her tracks with a great cloud of smoke, one that blotted out the sun and left the _Shui_ confused and lost in the wilderness. And so the _Huo_ made her escape, and when her feet finally touched down on the earth, she was in a village..."

7.

Brendon spent the next two days organizing and drying and preparing what he had gathered. It was a decent amount, but he knew that he'd have to spend a day or two in the fields each week, until the snow came. Now that he knew where everything was, he could go alone. 

Brendon liked the comforting rhythm of working in the storeroom, shucking husks and picking seeds and hanging everything to dry. He thought about asking Ryan to write out some labels, like the ones they'd had in the manor when he was a child, but he never quite got up the nerve. It didn't matter, Brendon told himself. He was the only one who would use this room, and _he_ knew what everything was. 

On the third morning, he started culling from his stock, making a small pile near the hearth. He noticed Ryan looking at it curiously, but he said nothing. Brendon bit his lip and concentrated on preparing the porridge. It wasn't complicated, but it did take all of his attention—five minutes to steep the leaves, boil for three, add Meadowsweet at nine, stir six times, cool, reheat. It would still be edible if he messed it up, but it wouldn't be nearly as effective. It was all about pulling the most out of the herbs, about using the right measures of heat and cold and time to force them to give up their essential magic. 

At noon, before Spencer and Jon had come back, Brendon took a deep breath and began to spoon it out. _This is stupid_ , Brendon thought to himself, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. He shouldn't be this afraid of talking to Ryan. 

Or maybe it wasn't even that he was afraid—it was that he was too fascinated. He wanted to be Ryan's friend in a strange, desperate way, and Brendon still wasn't even sure _why_. Mira, he had idolized; other _shui_ , he had always watched with a sort of hesitant longing. With Ryan, it was different. Brendon wanted to see him smile, to make him laugh. Brendon's favorite thing was to watch Ryan and Spencer by candlelight, the glow making Ryan's sharp features even more prominent. It wasn't simply that he was beautiful, because all _shui_ were. It was—something else, something nameless and unnerving. 

Maybe it was that Brendon wanted desperately to be the one to make Ryan smile like that. 

Brendon crossed the room, and set the bowl before Ryan. He wanted to drop his gaze, but he forced himself to stay level. Ryan looked up, after a moment, and nodded at him in thanks. 

Brendon swallowed, and began to turn away. So that was it, then. He'd thought that maybe Ryan would notice the new smells, the different taste, but—

"Brendon?" Ryan said, a frown in his voice. "I'm—what is this?"

"It'll help," Brendon said quietly, turning back to face Ryan. "It's just—some herbs and things. For you. It might taste a little strange, but—" Brendon broke off, at the look in Ryan's eyes. 

It was a familiar look, one that Brendon had never gotten quite used to. _Shui_ had a talent for making you feel as though they were looking _through_ you, rather than at you, seeing all of your faults and your glories at once. Brendon felt naked under his gaze. 

"I'm dying," Ryan said simply, still looking directly into Brendon's eyes. Brendon swallowed. Of course. Of course Ryan had been awake, had been listening. He felt his face flame. He'd never even had a real conversation with Ryan until now, and of course he'd managed to screw it up on his first try. "You know that, right?"

"I—" Brendon said, and then fell silent. What could he possibly say to that?

"You don't need to bother," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I didn't stop you, because maybe what you've gathered might help Jon and Spencer, after I'm—well. Not around. But there's no point in this," he said, lifting the spoon and letting it _thunk_ back into the dish. "Spend your time on something more useful."

"I understand," Brendon said, nodding his head, even though he was lying. "Spencer is just—worried about you."

"I know," Ryan said, quietly. He looked away from Brendon, towards the door. "I told him, you know. He's not stupid. I don't understand why he can't just—"

"Because he loves you?" Brendon blurted out, unable to help himself. He could feel anger simmering in his stomach. This wasn't how he'd imagined their first conversation to go, not in a million years, but. He'd known so many people, so many _slaves,_ who had died alone and unwanted. Had died in horrible pain, because their _huo_ had been too overworked to take care of them, or had been expressly forbidden."Because he's your oldest friend and he wants you to get better? Or at least not to be in pain? How is that hard to understand?"

"I didn't ask your opinion," Ryan snapped back. His eyes were cold, but it seemed to Brendon that his voice was shaking, just a little. "And how do you know that, how would you even—"

"Because I know how to _listen_ ," Brendon shot back. "And I know what it's like to be cold and alone and miserable, and the least you could do is be grateful for his kindness." 

He stopped, then, with the dawning realization of what he'd just done.  
Brendon's stomach immediately tightened up in knots. Fuck. He'd be lucky to escape with a few days of starvation, or even sleeping out in the cold. In a traditional house, Ryan could have him flogged for how he'd just acted. Brendon immediately knelt, pressing his cheek to the floor.

"Forgive me, _shui_ ," Brendon murmured. "I had no right to speak to you in such a way." Brendon was still quietly furious. He tried to modulate his voice so Ryan couldn't hear it. God, this whole thing couldn't have gone worse. "I apologize if my words and actions have displeased you."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the wind in the trees. Brendon held his breathe, and waited.

"Brendon," Ryan said eventually, sounding exhausted. "Get up." Brendon bit his lip and raised himself up to face Ryan's gaze. Ryan looked infinitely tired, pinched around the edges.

"Give me the porridge," Ryan said, holding out his hand. Brendon frowned for a moment, confused, and then handing it to Ryan. He almost expected Ryan to throw it at him, but Ryan placed it on his lap, instead.

"No one is ever going to hurt you for disagreeing with them in this house," Ryan said quietly. "Even if we both know you had no right to say such things to me."

"Yes, _shui_ ," Brendon murmured.

"If I eat this," Ryan said, "Do you promise not to tell Spencer—when he asks you, because he will—that I'm going along with your treatments?"

"Yes," Brendon said, nodding, even though he didn't understand. 

"Fine," Ryan said. "Then do what you want."

"Thank you," Brendon said, nodding his head again. It was a hollow victory. Jon had been right about Ryan. He didn't want to get better, or maybe he felt that he _couldn't._ Either way, none of Brendon's cures would work as well if the patient had given up all hope. But Brendon felt as though he owed it to Spencer and Jon to try—even to Ryan, a little, although right now Brendon wanted to dump the rest of his stew on Ryan's head for being so ungrateful. It might warm him up, at least. Brendon allowed himself a small smile at the thought.

"What's—what's in here?" Ryan asked, as Brendon was slowly standing up and turning back to the hearth. He sounded confused. "It tastes—" he let his sentence trail off, waiting for Brendon's reply.

"Meadowsweet, coltsfoot, willow bark," Brendon rattled off, trying to remember. Herbal remedies were more of an art than a science, and Brendon often let his instincts take over while he was preparing a cure. "Crushed sunflower seeds, garlic—some other things."

"Oh," Ryan said. He was quiet until Brendon turned back to the fire, stirring briskly to make sure the rest of the stew didn't burn. Nothing in there would hurt them, so it would be dinner for everyone tonight.

"It tastes like my mother's," Ryan murmured, softly enough that Brendon felt sure he didn't intend for Brendon to hear him. Brendon felt his eyes widen in shock. He turned around, but Ryan had already laid the stew down and turned over, with his back to Brendon.

-

"Where did Ryan come from?" Brendon asked, on his last day out in the fields. Spencer needed help gathering the last of the root vegetables from the gardens. A few of the potatoes were already frost-bitten, but Spencer insisted on saving everything they could, and Brendon agreed with him. He was no expert, but it seemed that their stores were particularly meager for what promised to be a long and harsh winter. 

"What do you mean?" Spencer replied, sitting back and pushing his hair out of his eyes. He left a smudge of dirt on his cheek as he did so, and Brendon grinned to himself. 

"He said—something," Brendon said carefully, digging at a particularly unyielding turnip. "About his mother."

"Oh," Spencer said, thinking. "Really?"

"Yes," Brendon replied. "I just wondered if—"

"He's never really talked about her," Spencer said, looking interested. "As long as I've known him. I mean, we were both young when we were sold. But I've never heard him say anything about where they came from, and he's always avoided my questions about it."

"I see," Brendon said carefully, thinking. He wondered if Ryan had meant to share that information, or if it had just slipped out in his surprise. He hadn't offered anything further in the days since Brendon had taken over Ryan-duties. He was silent and restrained with Brendon, nodding his thanks and saying nothing, even when Brendon served him Slippery Elm tea with pepper oil. It was a traditional Southern remedy for colds—and also a bit of a shock if you weren't expecting it. Brendon wondered if Ryan had realized Brendon was trying to get a rise out of him, or if the taste had been familiar enough that he hadn't commented on it. 

Brendon didn't even know why he cared so much, when it came down to it. Ryan was doing better, but not much. He didn't cough so often, and when he did, they seemed quieter. He wasn't shivering quite so much, either. But in the end, Brendon knew he was only staving off the inevitable. He'd seen _shui_ as sick as Ryan before; he knew the signs, the symptoms, even if Spencer and Jon didn't. It wasn't something that could be cured. Ryan's magic would eventually overtake him, eating away at him from the inside until there was nothing left. All of the slave races were prone to it; too much of the element that lay opposite theirs, and their magic ran wild, no longer bound to their will. But _shui_ were particularly susceptible. Brendon tried not to think of Mira. 

He focused on what he was doing, instead, telling himself that he shouldn't be so obsessed with trying to help Ryan. He'd shown no interest in Brendon, and Brendon—by all rights—should be returning the favor. 

Maybe it was that Ryan was such a mystery, keeping so closely to himself. Brendon couldn't understand him. Despite what he had said, Brendon had a sneaking suspicion that Ryan's actions weren't motivated by selfishness, or by a lack of understanding. Brendon had seen him with Spencer and Jon, watched the way Ryan's face lit up when they came home, even through the tiredness and pain. He had watched as Ryan patiently listened to Spencer read out loud, a project that had obviously been ongoing for some time. Ryan would listen to him with a gentle smile, correcting his mistakes only when Spencer paused for breath. It seemed obvious that Ryan cared for them deeply—and yet he seemed unwilling to do anything that might increase his chances of survival. There was something missing, a piece of the puzzle that Brendon hadn't figured out. 

"He must like you," Spencer said, after a long, comfortable pause. Brendon paused in what he was doing. 

"What?" Brendon said.

"Ryan," Spencer said, tying off one of the sacks. "He never tells anyone anything. If he said something like that to you, he must trust you."

"Ryan hates me," Brendon said grimly. "Haven't you noticed? He barely even looks at me." He didn't mention the argument they'd had the first time Brendon had tried to serve him. Besides making him look bad, Brendon felt it wasn't his secret to tell. Spencer didn't need to know how deep Ryan's hopelessness about his future really ran.

"Ryan isn't very good at...people," Spencer said. "Or change. I know he seems—aloof. But you have to give him a chance."

 _I've been giving him one,_ Brendon thought to himself. He didn't reply.

-

It snowed for the first time on the twelfth of November. Brendon woke in the middle of the night, shivering in his blankets. He could see his breath in the faint light coming from the hearth. The fire had fallen in the night; the embers glowed in a small pile on the cracked tile floor of the fireplace. Brendon threw back the covers and hurried over, swallowing nervously when he realized that the fire had almost gone out. The wind was howling in the chimney, but it wasn't until he had wrapped himself up to go out to the woodshed that he realized the cause of the sudden chill. 

Brendon felt his mouth drop open as he stared at the landscape. The light from his lantern illuminated hundreds—no, thousands of snowflakes, swirling and falling with the wind. The landscape itself was blanketed with snow, soft white curves blunting the harshness of the winter landscape. When Brendon stepped into the snow, his feet sank soundlessly. It was beautiful. 

Brendon made his way carefully to the woodshed, popping the latch and pulling the door open with a creak. Inside, it was dry but cold, the wood standing in neat piles. Brendon loaded up his arms and made the trek back, still marveling at the snow. He opened the door to the main house, dropping the wood in a pile and stamping his boots off in an effort to rid of them of the flakes. It wasn't until he had removed his wrappings that he realized he was being watched.

Ryan was sitting up and looking at him, absolutely silent. He looked—Brendon wasn't an expert at Ryan's expressions, even after all the time he had spent watching him, but Brendon thought he looked almost...hopeful. 

"Is is snowing?" Ryan whispered, his voice carrying in the quiet hush of the night. "Is it—is it the first snow?"

Brendon nodded. He didn't know what else to say—part of him wanted to share what he had just experienced, how he had always dreamed of what snow might look like, but never believed he would actually see it. The rest of him knew that if there was anyone who would appreciate that story, it would be Spencer or Jon. He and Ryan weren't friends, as much as Brendon wished they could be. 

Brendon carefully stacked the fire in the hearth back up, keeping his hands in the flames until he was assured of a roaring blaze. Then he took the other logs and crept into Jon and Spencer's room. Brendon knew there was an entire upper floor of the house that they never used; sometimes, when he was working, he entertained thoughts of what it might look like, what treasures might be locked away up there. Jon preferred to sleep in a room on the main floor that had once been a parlour, now converted to a bedroom. Spencer had explained it to him, when Brendon had asked curiously; that the room had been Tom's room, that he'd never liked sleeping by the fire like most _huo._ Jon and Tom had shared it until Tom left; Spencer had slept by the fire to take care of Ryan. When Brendon had arrived, Spencer had moved into Tom's old bed. 

The room itself was as cold as the main room had been, and Brendon could hear Jon snuffling unhappily in his sleep. Brendon lit the fire there as well, making sure it was properly banked before returning to the main room. He felt almost unnaturally awake; he wondered if he would be able to creep over to the windows after Ryan went back to sleep. He wanted to watch the snow. 

But Ryan was still awake when Brendon returned, now with his legs kicked out over the side of the bed. He took a deep breath, and then Brendon felt his eyes widen as Ryan struggled to his feet. He was across the room in a moment, holding out his arms to catch Ryan as he wobbled precariously. 

"What are you doing?" Brendon said softly, utterly confused. "You shouldn't be up. Did you need to—"

"I'm—" Ryan said, and then took a deep breath. He looked away, over Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, how he was essentially holding Ryan up in his arms. 

"I wanted to see the snow," Ryan said, after a moment. "I know, it's—silly. Childish, even. But she's calling to me—I woke up, I couldn't sleep—and I know I can't go out in it, but maybe if I can see it, maybe then I could—"

"Oh," Brendon said. He'd never seen Ryan look so alive; weak as he was, his eyes shone with a faint light, a spark of something that Brendon had never seen before. Brendon suddenly wished he had known Ryan before he was sick. He felt certain, at that moment, that Ryan had been far more lively than Brendon had been picturing him as. That maybe he hadn't always been so quiet, and shy—there was an impetuousness about him, something wild and headstrong under the surface. Brendon nodded slowly.

"I was going to sit and watch the snow," Brendon said carefully. "Maybe we could both—if I walk you over to the windowsill, can you stay there until I push the chairs over?"

"I think so," Ryan said. 

Ryan walked with hesitant, careful steps. Brendon kept one hand around his waist so he wouldn't fall, and when they reached the windows he made sure Ryan was holding on to the windowframe before he let go. Ryan peered out into the snow, pressing his face against the glass; the snow swirled fitfully, restless and wild. 

Brendon dragged two of the chairs over, and then went back for some of Ryan's bedding. Ryan insisted on sharing the blankets with him, and Brendon was surprised enough to acquiesce without complaint. Ryan's small body was cold next to him, and Brendon found himself moving closer without meaning to. He wanted to reach out, warm Ryan up, but he stayed a careful three inches away. 

"It's so beautiful," Ryan said, breaking the silence. Brendon could hear him drawing in a breath, the slight rattle and wheeze in his lungs that always accompanied such an action. "I always forget—I can see it in my mind, a little, but it's never the same as watching it for real."

"Yeah," Brendon said, quietly. Then, his heart leaping in his throat, he said—"I'd never seen snow before tonight."

"Never?" Ryan said, turning that otherworldly gaze on him in curiosity. "They didn't have snow where you were from?"

"I'm from the South," Brendon said, smiling a little. "So, no. No snow. The best we ever got was cold rain." 

Ryan seemed to digest that for a moment, tilting his head to look at Brendon with new eyes. "Brendon," Ryan said, after a few moments where he was just—looking at Brendon, perhaps evaluating. "I think that I—I should apologize again."

"You don't need to," Brendon said, automatically. "You're _shui_ , you were perfectly correct to—"

"No," Ryan said. "I wasn't." He shook his head. "I'm not—not very good at people, anymore," Ryan said. "I used to be. Tom and I, we would go into town, and we'd laugh and cause trouble. I had a reputation," Ryan said, smiling slightly. "Can you believe that?"

"Yes," Brendon said, honestly. Ryan's eyes widened, and he let out a quiet bark of laughter at Brendon's answer. Brendon found himself smiling back. It seemed that he was finally seeing the side of Ryan that Jon and Spencer saw; he could absolutely imagine _this_ Ryan swanning through a crowd, dazzling everyone he spoke to. 

"I'm sorry I've been so rude to you," Ryan said, his smile fading as he looked back out into the snow. "It's just—I have my reasons. I know that sounds even worse, but." Ryan shook his head. "I think maybe I was wrong. About you, at least." 

"Oh," Brendon said. He had no idea what to say to that. He wondered if Ryan was being deliberately obscure. 

"Thank you for staying with me," Ryan said, even softer. Brendon reached out for Ryan without thinking, wrapping his cold hand in Brendon's warm one. It was a natural reaction for Brendon; he'd spent his childhood years holding hands with his brothers and sisters. It had been a small way of offering comfort against the hardships of life, but when Ryan felt Brendon's hand close around his own, he looked up in shock. 

"Oh," Brendon said again, chastised this time, and made to draw his hand away. He felt slightly ashamed, frustrated with his lack of understanding. Once again he felt as though he would never understand the rules in the North. 

"No," Ryan said, blinking at him. "No, I just—you startled me. Um," Ryan said, halting and fumbling a little. "That was—nice. You're so warm."

"You mean Tom never held your hand to warm you up?" Brendon said. 

"I wasn't sick when Tom was here," Ryan said. Brendon swallowed, instantly realizing his mistake, but Ryan just smiled at him hesitantly. 

"I'm sure he would have offered had I needed it," Ryan said. "But that's in the past, now." He looked back out at the snow, his expression sad. Brendon joined him, staying quiet as they watched the wind tracing patterns through the trees. 

When Brendon offered Ryan his hand the second time, Ryan didn't pull away. 

The next morning Ryan was sicker than he'd been in weeks. Brendon had practically carried him back to bed near dawn, and he woke himself coughing later that morning. Brendon suspected it was due to all the energy he'd used up in the night, the way he'd seemed to come alive again while watching the falling snow. But Brendon had also prepared himself for the distinct possibility of things going back to the way they had been, so when Ryan woke, groaning a little in pain, Brendon avoided the urge to smooth his hands over Ryan's thin shoulders. He placed a cup of tea by Ryan's bed, instead—he knew Ryan wouldn't be able to eat until he had stopped coughing quite so intensely. Then he turned away, only to be stopped by Ryan's voice, thin and strained.

"Brendon," Ryan coughed. Brendon turned around, eyes widening in surprise.

"Thank you," Ryan choked out. He paused for a minute, catching his breath, and then he looked up at Brendon. "How does the snow look?" Ryan asked, quietly. Brendon felt something ease up in his chest. 

"It's nice," Brendon said, after a minute of fumbling for what he should say. Talking to Ryan in the daylight felt like a minefield; one wrong move, and he might be back to strained silences and distant glares. "It's—it's beautiful. It's iced over, a bit, and the sun is sort of reflecting off everything. There's icicles on the overhang of the wood shed, and they're huge, really, I didn't know they could even get that long, and—yeah," Brendon finished, blushing awkwardly. "It's really pretty." He probably hadn't needed to go into quite that much detail. 

"I wish I could see it," Ryan whispered. He started coughing again, Ryant over nearly to his knees, and Brendon frowned and rushed back over to the bed. 

"You need to drink this," Brendon said, holding the tea up and placing a tentative hand on Ryan's shoulder. "I put Willow Bark in it, you steep it and it helps with the congestion. And Licorice, that will help with your throat—"

"It's not going to fix anything," Ryan said, forcing the words out in between coughs. He smiled sadly at Brendon, more of a grimace than anything else. "You know that as well as I do."

"But at least then you'll be able to breathe," Brendon said, pushing the mug forward. "It can't be very enjoyable to sit here and cough all day." He choose not to comment on Ryan's words. It seemed as though they had come to an uneasy truce; Brendon wasn't about to ruin it now. 

"Not really, no," Ryan said dryly. He coughed again, and when he drew his hand away from his mouth Brendon could see tiny flecks of blood on his palm, mixed with spittle so that they were light pink. 

"Just drink it for me," Brendon pressed, wrapping Ryan's hands around the mug. "You don't want me to have to listen to you coughing all day, do you? It's so inconvenient. You'll ruin my concentration." Ryan snorted softly, but he took a tentative sip. 

"This is good," he said, looking up at Brendon. He sipped the tea a few more times. "It tastes familiar," Ryan said carefully, thinking out loud. Brendon raised an eyebrow. "But it's like—it slips away when I try to think about it. I can't remember anything about where I've had it, only that—I think my mother was there," Ryan said slowly. "I must have been very young." 

"It's a traditional recipe," Brendon said, equally carefully."I learned it from my mother."

"In the South?" Ryan said.

"Yes," Brendon said. Ryan looked at him levelly, eyes searching. "I think," Ryan said, his words measured. Brendon noticed that he wasn't coughing so much anymore, and gave himself a silent pat on the back. "I don't remember much about being very young," Ryan said. "I remember everything hurting, and my mother crying all the time. But I think—-"

"You came from the South," Brendon finished. He felt a moment of panic at the realization that he'd effectively just interrupted Ryan, but Ryan didn't even seem to notice. Instead he was nodding thoughtfully, looking at Brendon over the rim of his tea mug. 

"I suspected as much," Brendon admitted, after a moment. "Jon and Spencer both asked me what I was putting in the stews and the cider, because to them it tasted strange. But you didn't even seem to notice." 

"Sometimes I can't taste anything at all," Ryan admitted. "It comes and it goes. But when I could taste it, it was always—good. It reminded me of home, and I couldn't figure out why, because I've lived here almost since I can remember."

"But you never forget those kind of things," Brendon agreed. "I know I can't."

Ryan was silent for a while. Brendon was starting to feel awkward; he still was perched on the side of Ryan's bed. He was just considering going up to get some tea for himself as a convenient excuse when Ryan spoke up.

"Do you miss it?" Ryan asked, looking at him with suddenly clear eyes. 

"Sometimes," Brendon said. "But I don't know if you—you were asleep so much, when I first came. But I wasn't well," Brendon said, looking away. His voice was matter-of-fact. "If Jon hadn't bought me, I would have died on the way back. I knew the burns on my back were infected. It was only a matter of time."

Ryan nodded silently. He nudged at Brendon's knee, a wordless invitation to continue. 

"So it's more that I miss the climate," Brendon finished. "I miss the rains and the sunshine and the summer nights. I mean, I miss my family, but that can't be helped. I don't even know if they're still alive, so—so what does it matter, really? Missing a place isn't going to help me see them again," Brendon said. He kept his eyes focused on the fire. He didn't want to see pity in Ryan's eyes, or even understanding. Brendon had realized early on that it did him no good to feel sorry for himself; he didn't like to be reminded of the past. He didn't need to commiserate about the awful things he'd been forced to live through. They were just facts, clear and inalienable, a part of himself he'd never escape. 

"Is that where this came from?" Ryan said, touching Brendon's forearm lightly. There was a deep groove across the muscle, a mass of unnaturally smooth flesh in a straight line. "Your scar. I wondered, but I didn't want to ask and seem rude." 

Brendon snorted. He considered telling Ryan that he'd been far ruder by just ignoring him, but he kept the thought to himself.

"How much did Tom ever tell you about _huo_ and fire resistance?" Brendon asked, instead. "Did he ever explain how it really works?"

"Um," Ryan said. He paused for another coughing fit, and then continued with a slightly sarcastic, "You mean, how it doesn't burn you? Because I did notice that. I'm sick, not stupid."

"You'd be surprised how unobservant people can be," Brendon said mildly. "But yes. Fire doesn't hurt us the same way it would hurt you. But—and this is what I meant, really—there's a limit, and it increases as you get older. It changes based on the month and if you're a boy or a girl and lots of other things. Sort of like the moon. There's a formula for it, but it just becomes second nature. I don't even have to think about it to know," Brendon said. "Like right now, it's November, so you add seventeen, but it's also the waning moon, so you minus eight, and then I'm a boy, so you always minus three, and—you get the idea," Brendon said. "It's not something most _huo_ talk about, except to other _huo_."

"Oh," Ryan breathed out, his eyes wide and interested. "But it always looks so—I thought. Tom made it seem so effortless. So do you," Ryan said. "I've never seen either of you burn yourself by accident." 

"You get used to it," Brendon said, blushing a little. He hadn't meant to go into such detail, but Ryan had reacted as though he was actually interested. "Anyway. I was eight or nine, and I'd done something—I forget what, gotten into the storerooms, maybe. I used to steal things from the pantry when no one was looking. The Master's assistant decided to see how long I could last with a red-hot poker against my arm," Brendon said. "It was July, waxing moon. My immunity was about a minute and a half." Brendon paused, drawing a deep breath. "I lasted four minutes beyond that before I passed out," Brendon said, looking down at his arm. He heard Ryan suck in a breath.

"So yes," Brendon said, after a few minutes of silence. He didn't know why he'd felt such a need to tell that story to Ryan; usually he just made something up. "I don't miss the South too much. It's better up here." 

From then on, Ryan talked with Brendon whenever he was awake and feeling up to it. Brendon didn't push. He almost never initiated the conversations; he would wait for Ryan to clear his throat and call out to him, and then Brendon would gather up whatever he was doing and shove a few chairs or the table over towards Ryan's bed and set up a miniature workspace. Ryan seemed to know when Brendon would be willing to spend time with him; he never called for Brendon when he was cooking something delicate, or doing something that required careful attention. He would wait until Brendon was husking the barley, or letting the bread rise, or churning butter, and then he would call for him in a quiet voice and they would sit and talk about everything and nothing. Jon and Spencer were in and out; as much as the fields were snowed under, there was still livestock to be taken care of, tools to be mended, firewood to be chopped. Brendon wasn't sure if they'd noticed the sudden thaw between him and Ryan, but the air in the house felt lighter all-around. 

Ryan was surprisingly well-read for a slave. Brendon learned that when Jon's father had passed away, the farm had been relatively well-off. Jon had inherited a modest sum besides, and he'd quietly shared it with the three of them. They had to be careful not to be too ostentatious—as relaxed as the North was, there was still a limit on what slaves could own—but Ryan had used his share of the money to buy books, figuring he could pass them off as Jon's if there was ever an issue. He'd smuggled them through the Wentz farm when the shop-owners in town became suspicious. 

Brendon frowned a little as he kneaded the dough. "How many books would one have to buy to make them suspicious?" Brendon asked. "I mean. Were you trying to build a library or something?"

"Sort of," Ryan said, ducking his head. "The whole house was open, then. There's another parlor up there," Ryan said, pointing at the ceiling, towards the western end of the house. "I filled two walls before I ran out of money." 

"Two _walls_?" Brendon sputtered. "You really—two whole walls?"

"I loved reading," Ryan said. "It was like—anything you wanted to learn, anything you could dream of. It was all there. I couldn't resist."

"Who taught you?" Brendon said curiously. Most _shui_ knew how to read and write, so the Master wouldn't have to bother with the household correspondence and bookkeeping, but it was usually passed down from mother to child. 

"My mother started to," Ryan said. He paused to cough again, thick and painful-sounding. Brendon pushed Ryan's tea closer to him with his elbow. "After she died, all I had were her books and a few other things. So I begged Mrs. Walker until she bought me a primer, and I used to teach myself at night, by candlelight."

"I thought you must have been taught by someone," Brendon confessed. "You're so—when you read out loud, you don't stumble over the words or anything." 

"I practiced," Ryan said simply. He sat up once more to cough, and then laid back down with a tired expression. Brendon wasn't sure, but it seemed as though Ryan was getting sicker again. It was hard to judge; some days he seemed relatively fine, and then others he barely moved except to eat or shiver or grimace in pain. It felt as though the bad days were starting to outnumber the good. But even more troubling, to Brendon's mind, was that the ice crystals had started to return. They were just a faint shimmer on the backs of Ryan's hands, but. Brendon knew from experience that they were never a good sign. 

Brendon nodded. Secretly, he'd always wanted to learn how to read and write, but in the South it hadn't even been an option. _Tua_ could learn, if they choose to, although not many did; _huo_ were expressly barred. Part of him wanted to ask Ryan to teach him, but Brendon knew that he'd feel too guilty if Ryan said yes. Keeping up with the farm was enough work for Ryan as it was; Brendon couldn't in good conscience ask him for more. Even Ryan's lessons with Spencer had stopped since his latest turn for the worst. Spencer had said it was because he was too busy out in the fields, but Brendon knew better. 

"So are they still up there?" Brendon asked, shaking his head to clear it. "Your books, I mean. If you wanted, I could ask Jon for the key and go up and take a look for you. I don't mind the cold." 

"I sold them," Ryan said, turning his head on the pillow to face Brendon. There were deep circles under his eyes. "The drought three years ago hit everyone hard, but we nearly starved. We'd been so careless—Jon was young, we all were. Maybe too young to be running the farm. We hadn't thought so much about the future and then all of a sudden we had all these debts to pay," Ryan said. His voice was strangely even, as though he'd been over this before and come to terms with their past mistakes. Brendon wondered if he blamed Jon for them, and then quickly dismissed the thought. He'd seen the way Ryan held grudges. When he was distrustful of someone, or angry with them, he showed it loud and clear.

"But you saved some of them, at least," Brendon said, nodding his head towards the stack of books at the end of Ryan's bed. 

"My favorites," Ryan said, nodding. "I'll sell them this winter."

Brendon paused, his hands still wrist-deep in the dough. "Do you think we'll have to?" Brendon said, carefully. It was true that the harvest had been poor again this year; their stocks were meager, but Brendon had felt certain that with careful rationing they'd be able to make it through. He hadn't considered their debts, though. He'd seen Ryan slaving away over their books, marking up rows of figures with words Brendon couldn't read. He had a sinking feeling that maybe they were worse off than he'd realized.

"We'll see," Ryan said quietly, but he didn't sound hopeful. Brendon nodded, setting the dough aside and covering it with a piece of cheesecloth. It needed time to rise. 

"Did you—are you still busy?" Ryan said, as Brendon stood up. Brendon looked at him and shook his head. "I've things to do," Brendon answered honestly. "But there's always things to do. The dough needs to rise for a few hours, so I was planning on sweeping out the floors and scrubbing the lamps."

"Would you," Ryan started, and then stopped himself. He seemed to be struggling with something for a bit, but when he opened his mouth again, his voice was relatively firm. "I thought we could read for a bit," Ryan said, looking at Brendon carefully. 

Brendon blinked. "We?" he said, frowning. "I'm—I'm only _huo_ , Ryan. You know I don't know how to read."

"I don't mind reading out loud," Ryan said, and then held up a hand when Brendon began to protest. "If I'm selling these soon, you'll never get to hear the stories in them," Ryan said. "My throat doesn't hurt that much, and I'm tired but I can stay awake. You've done so much for us, for me, and I just—please let me repay you," Ryan said. 

"Ryan," Brendon said, coming back over to sit at the foot of Ryan's bed. There was a lump in his throat, sudden and unexpected, but he pushed it down. Brendon told himself it was only because he'd never had a _shui_ offer to do that before, outside of the Storytelling. Books and stories of the world were for other races; Brendon would hear the tales in snippets, filtering through into the kitchen. "I'm honored," Brendon said. "But you'll make yourself sicker. It's a foolish idea." 

"One chapter," Ryan said. "Just one, I promise. Then I'll rest all afternoon, if that's what you want." 

"I'd rather you rest the whole time," Brendon said, but it was mostly a lie. His heart had quickened just at the thought of hearing the stories, of learning more about far-away places he'd never see. 

"Please," Ryan said, and made an aborted sitting-up motion. Brendon pushed him back down gently. "I'll bring them to you," Brendon said, knowing that that Ryan would understand his tacit submission as approval. He gathered up the stack of books by the end of the bed, and placed them one by one next to Ryan. Ryan looked through them, deep in thought. He finally chose a small, thick book with a green cover, and handed the rest back to Brendon. Brendon placed them back on the floor in a neat pile. He turned and began making himself comfortable against the footboard, but Ryan shook his head. 

"Come sit by me," Ryan said softly. "If you don't mind. That way you can see the words as I read them, even if you're not sure what the symbols mean." 

"Oh," Brendon said, ducking his head. He wondered how obvious he'd been in his desire to learn; maybe he'd listened too closely as Ryan was teaching Spencer, watched them too raptly when he thought he was being subtle. Either way, Ryan didn't look as though he minded. He smiled at Brendon once Brendon had settled in, turning his body so that Brendon could see the thin pages. The book itself was gilt-edged, with small blocks of text set in the middle of the pages. 

"You're so warm," Ryan said, just before he began. He smiled at Brendon again, something small and secret, and Brendon felt himself blushing. This close, he could see how haggard Ryan looked, how thin his face had become. Brendon thought about how Ryan was still beautiful, even now, how he would continue to be beautiful no matter what, and then he pushed that train of thought away because Ryan was talking again. 

"I know I said we'd read a story," Ryan said softly. "But these are actually poems. But they have stories in them, and they're lovely when they're read out loud."

"What are they about?" Brendon whispered. It seemed appropriate to whisper; the only noise in the room was the crackling of the fire and the wind in the trees outside the windows. 

"Sometimes I'm not sure," Ryan admitted. "But I think they're about everything, really. This one is called 'Poem of the Sayers of the Words of the Earth.' I think you'll like it." He looked slightly mischievous as he began to read. 

"Were you thinking that those were the words—those upright lines? Those curves, angles, dots? No, those are not the words—the substantial words are in the ground and sea. They are in the air—they are in you," Ryan read. His voice was thin and soft, but he read with enough skill that Brendon found himself immediately captivated.

"Were you thinking that those were the words?" Ryan repeated, smiling at Brendon. "Those delicious sounds out of your friends' mouths? No, the real words are more delicious than they." 

"Oh, are they," Brendon said, but he was laughing softly. "I'm glad to know my words are the real ones, then." 

"I thought you'd appreciate this one," Ryan murmured. He nudged Brendon's shoulder with his own, and then continued reading. 

"Human bodies are words, myriads of words," Ryan read, and Brendon settled back to listen.

-

Brendon woke to the sound of coughing. It sounded very close, and he was confused for a moment before he realized he was still in Ryan's bed, curled up next to him under the blankets. The book had fallen from Ryan's hands; he was doubled over, hunched into himself, his shoulders heaving. Brendon frowned, sitting up and putting his hand on Ryan's shoulder without thinking. Ryan took no notice of him. His whole body was shaking, and Brendon felt his stomach sink a little. 

"Breathe," Brendon whispered, smoothing his palm over the set of Ryan's shoulders. "It's okay, you'll be okay, just try and breathe." Ryan shook his head, still coughing, and made as though to brush Brendon's hand off. He turned away from Brendon, towards the embers still glowing in the fire, and then Brendon saw that Ryan's hands were cupped in front his face. There was a dark liquid in them, seeping through his fingers. Brendon gasped. 

"Ryan," Brendon said, tugging on his shoulder, heedless of his actions. He had to be certain. Ryan resisted him for a moment, but it was clear he wasn't strong enough to fight back against the full force of Brendon's strength. He paused, chest heaving, as he was pulled back to face Brendon. 

Even in the low light, Brendon could see the spattering of blood around his mouth. Ryan's hands were covered in it; the thick red liquid was seeping through his fingers. It was stained down the front of his nightshirt and on the covers. 

"It's okay," Brendon said shakily, wiping at Ryan's hands with the covers. Ryan whimpered a little, trying to turn away from Brendon again. "No, give me your hands," Brendon said, "Ryan, come on—"

"No," Ryan whispered, his voice thin and pained. "Brendon, you have to just leave me alone. There's nothing you can do."

"I know," Brendon said, his mind racing. If Ryan was coughing up blood, he was already past any help Brendon could give him. But maybe—Brendon knew there were healers who could stave off Ryan's affliction, could at least buy him some time. The Master hadn't wanted to pay for one for Mira; Brendon had heard the whispers, passed from slave to slave as she lay by the fire. That he'd laughed when it was suggested to him, had said he'd rather have a new _shui_ than try to save one that was old and worn-out. Brendon didn't know how much it might cost, but he knew that Jon and Spencer would willingly give whatever they had to save Ryan. That if they knew how sick he really was, they would be riding to town this very moment to find one. "We need to get to you to a healer," Brendon said firmly, still trying to wipe the blood off Ryan's hands as Ryan tried to tug away. "Do you have one in town? You must have, we had them in the South—they'll be able to help you. I know it's expensive, I know you probably won't want to go, but she can at least buy you some time—"

"Brendon," Ryan said thinly, giving up all pretense of fighting him off. His hands lay limp on the covers. "Brendon, I'm not going to a healer." 

"We'll find a way to pay for it," Brendon said, wiping at Ryan's mouth. "We'll go first thing in the morning—"

"Brendon, I'm not going," Ryan said, drawing a deep breath. "Not now. Not ever."

"What do you mean, you're not going?" Brendon said, frowning. "I told you—"

"Brendon," Ryan said, his voice suddenly sharp. "I told you. I have my reasons." He looked away for a long moment, and then turned back. "This is a good thing," Ryan said quietly. "Can't you see that? It's almost over." 

Brendon swallowed. "What do you mean?" Brendon said carefully. 

Ryan coughed again, thick and painful-sounding, holding his hand over his mouth. "I'm so tired," Ryan whispered. "Brendon, I know you mean well, but I can't—I can't _do_ this anymore. I've been waiting for this. When Tom left—I thought I could make it through the winter. We all knew how hard it would be, how we'd have to use up all our savings just to buy anything cooked over a fire. How no one would lend a _huo_ to Jon once word got out. But then I got sick, and I knew. Don't you understand? This is how it has to be," Ryan said quietly. "When I realized I thought it wouldn't be so bad, that maybe I'd go quick, but it didn't happen. It hurts _so much_ ," Ryan said, and Brendon felt his throat constrict at the sudden shimmer of tears in Ryan's eyes. "Everything in me, every part of my body. Everything aches, and I can't stop shivering, and then it hurts more. This isn't any way to live," Ryan said. "I won't go to a healer and let them drag it out. I just want it to be over."

"You," Brendon said, brokenly, and then found he couldn't speak. "You—wanted this?"

"No," Ryan shook his head. "Of course I don't. Do you think I'd pick this way to die, if I'd had a choice? Brendon, listen to me." He coughed again. "I'm just saying that you have to let me go. I wanted to—I didn't even want to get to know you, when you first came. I didn't want to have someone else to leave behind," Ryan whispered. 

"No," Brendon whispered. "No, I. You can't just give up like that."

"I'm not giving up," Ryan said. He looked paler than Brendon had ever seen him, his skin laced faintly with a shimmering of ice near his hairline. "I'm doing this on my terms. It's all been taken care of. The farm is solvent for another six months, if nothing else goes wrong. You'll have enough to get through the winter, if you're careful. You can sell my books and things for extra money, enough to help buy another _shui_ in the Spring. Jon's reputation might be good enough by then, if the townspeople see that you haven't run away from him—"

"Stop," Brendon said, pressing his hands over Ryan's mouth. His skin was cold to the touch. "Stop, please, Ryan—"

"You have to let me go," Ryan whispered, into Brendon's palm. "If you're really my friend, you'll do this for me." 

"No," Brendon whispered, drawing his hand away. There were fresh flecks of blood on his palm.

"I'm telling Jon and Spencer in the morning," Ryan said quietly. "You won't have a choice. I just want—please don't look at me like that," Ryan said. "Brendon—please," Ryan said. Brendon swallowed firmly, and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Just stay with me," Ryan said, curling a little closer. "It will be over soon. That's all I want. No healers, no complications. If you really care that much, just stay with me," Ryan said. "Please. I feel warmer when you're here." 

"I can't just watch you die," Brendon whispered. 

"You don't have a choice," Ryan said again. He looked tired and sad, infinitely worn out. He curled closer, and Brendon opened his arms without thinking. Ryan was cold to the touch. Brendon breathed out and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the top of Ryan's head, curled up against his chest. "I'm going to die no matter what you do," Ryan whispered into Brendon's chest. "It's only a matter of time." 

-

Ryan was asleep the second time Brendon woke. Brendon could feel a headache throbbing at the edges of his temple, and his face felt grimy. Ryan was silent next to him, his chest rising and falling with a slight wheeze. Outside, the sun was rising. 

Brendon slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Ryan. He started the fire and began laying out breakfast, a simple meal of cold bread and cheese and gruel. He drew water from the bucket near the fire and began steeping the tea, rolling the bundles of dried leaves between his palms and then dropping them in, one by one. It was easy, mindless work. Brendon wasn't sure he could handle anything else. 

Jon and Spencer came in just as Brendon was wrapping himself up in his winter layers. Jon frowned at him curiously; Spencer took a seat at the table, reaching out for a hunk of bread and yawning. 

"I'm going out for a bit," Brendon said softly, forestalling any conversation. "Wake Ryan for breakfast, if you wouldn't mind. There's tea in the small kettle over the hearth." 

"You don't want breakfast first?" Spencer said curiously, forcing the words out between bites. 

"I've eaten," Brendon said, and slipped through the door. He tipped his head back against the cold wooden planks of the house, staring up at the sun until his vision blurred. Eventually, he set off into the woods. 

Several feet of snow had fallen since he'd been out last, and Brendon's feet sank into the drifts soundlessly. It took effort to put one foot in front of the other, but Brendon welcomed the distraction. He tried not to think about what Ryan might be telling Jon and Spencer back at the house. He just couldn't—not yet, Brendon told himself firmly. He knew he was running away, knew this was cowardice disguised as a favor. That had been all Ryan had asked for—no hysterics, no tears—but Ryan's words were still too fresh in his mind for Brendon to listen to them again without breaking down. 

So Brendon walked, aimless and distracted. He felt heartsick every time he thought about Ryan, so he tried not to think of him at all. He went deeper into the forest, brushing away the heavy fir branches laden down with snow that barred his path. It was a cold, clear morning; he wouldn't get lost as long as he could see the sun. 

-

When Brendon returned in the afternoon, Spencer was waiting for him. He was standing at the edge of the Eastern Pasture, sitting on the fence and looking up at the sky. Brendon stopped in front of him, and for a moment they just looked at each other in the silence. Spencer's breath puffed out into clouds of moisture as he breathed. 

"He told you," Spencer said, breaking the fragile silence, and Brendon nodded. 

"Last night," Brendon said. "He didn't mean for me to find out. He didn't have a choice."

"Thank _Tua_ you did," Spencer said sharply, and then looked away. "He'd have done it all himself, if he'd had the choice," Spencer mumbled. "He'd have decided it was easier that way, and we would have woken up one morning without him." He looked like he was holding back tears. "I just—" Spencer said, and then Brendon stepped closer and held out his arms. His stomach was coiled in knots, fear pulsing through his veins, but Spencer leaned into him without hesitation, hiding his face in the snowy folds of Brendon's scarf. Brendon carefully settled his arms around Spencer, and tried not to think about how many ways this would have gotten him in trouble in the South. 

"Thank you," Spencer said eventually, pulling away. He wiped at the back of his eyes with his hand, a rough, imprecise motion. "I'm sorry. I usually don't—I mean."

"I know," Brendon said, and then he didn't know what else to say. The silence between them stretched out long and empty. It was useless to pretend, to say false words intended to convey a false hope. Ryan was dying. 

"Come inside," Spencer said, eventually. "Ryan's asleep. But I spoke to Jon, and I—we wanted to show you something," Spencer said. "That's why I was out here waiting for you."

"Oh," Brendon said. He followed Spencer back inside. They stamped their boots quietly. Brendon brushed the snow off his coat and scarf and hat before hanging them up near the fire. Spencer did the same, but kept his coat on. Brendon gave him a curious look, and then placed his hands in the flames, pushing them up higher until they crackled merrily.

"I can make tea," Brendon said quietly, careful not to wake Ryan. "I don't know how long you were out there, if you'd like some—"

"I'm fine," Spencer said, shaking his head. "Although I suspect you could use some. You've been gone for hours."

Brendon shrugged. "Maybe later," he said. The cold had almost felt good; when Brendon was upset, or angry, or sad, his body temperature was even higher than normal. He'd still needed all of his layers to keep warm, but he wasn't nearly as chilled as he might have been. 

"Come on, then," Spencer said, leading Brendon to the doorway in-between the pantry and Spencer and Jon's room. Spencer reached up, feeling along the top edge of the door frame and then pulling down a small silver key. Brendon watched him in silence. 

"It's going to be cold up there," Spencer said. "Are you sure you won't need more layers?"

"I'm fine," Brendon said, trying to peer beyond Spencer's shoulder. All he could see was a stairway coated with dust and cobwebs. 

Spencer shrugged, and then headed up the stairs. Brendon followed him, wide-eyed. 

The staircase opened onto a long hallway, with two sets of small rooms on either side. Spencer walked down the hallway, opening all the doors as he passed to let the light in. Brendon peered into the first one; it looked as though it had once been a bedroom. There were heavy drapes on the windows, and faded pink wallpaper that looked as though it had originally been a deep red. Now it was piled with all manner of things, boxes and chests and chairs and burlap sacks. 

"Storage," Spencer said, shrugging. "What we have left, anyway. Some of them are family heirlooms. They're not worth much, and Jon wanted to keep them. His mother's pewter table settings, that kind of thing." 

Brendon nodded. Even under the dust and the disarray, it seemed as though he could see how the house had once looked. The carpets were slightly ragged around the edges; the wardrobe looked as though it was twice as old as Brendon. It had never been a grand estate, like the ones he had grown up in, but the furnishings spoke of comfort and middle-class taste, of a house passed down through the generations. 

The three other rooms—two bedrooms, and a small sitting room—had been left as they were when Jon's father had passed away. Spencer wordlessly began opening the drapes and pulling the bedsheets off the furniture. Brendon followed suit, tugging and pulling until the rooms had been uncovered. Both bedrooms contained large beds, old but well-made, with tall posts at each corner and heavy drapes to seal in the heat. One was decorated in shades of cream and gold, and one in a dark green print. They each had small fireplaces directly opposite the beds. 

The sitting room was the room Brendon immediately fell in love with. It was above the kitchen on the floor plan, so it gathered heat from the fireplace below; the tall brick chimney comprised part of the north wall, dividing the wall in half. Opposite to that, a smaller grate had its own chimney. It was decorated in shades of dark and peacock blue, with several armchairs and a threadbare oriental rug. 

"I wanted to bring you up here," Spencer said, finally breaking the silence. His voice sounded slightly hoarse. "Because I thought—if I can chop enough firewood, we could afford to heat these rooms. I think we could have afforded it before, too, but Jon doesn't like to come up here," Spencer said. 

"Too many memories," Brendon agreed, quietly. He ran his fingers over the thick film of dust on the sideboard. Spencer nodded. 

"But if we moved Ryan up here, he could see out onto the pasture," Spencer said, looking across the hall towards the cream-and-gold bedroom. "There's more light, and if you wouldn't mind going up and down the stairs to keep an eye on the fires—"

"Spencer," Brendon said, shaking his head. "Of course I wouldn't mind. This is—" _so much better for him_ , Brendon thought. He liked the ground floor of the house well enough; the simple, unpretentious rooms that Jon had repurposed so that everyone could sleep by a fire and eat together and still have room to work. But the sun was setting earlier and earlier, and the kitchens were dark even in the afternoon. Up here, Ryan would be able to catch the last rays of the sun as it set; he could be bundled into the large beds or wrapped in blankets to sit by the fire, if he had a good day. 

"—this is where he should be," Brendon finished, eventually. "I'll start cleaning after lunch."

"I don't want to make more work for you," Spencer protested, but Brendon held up a hand. "It's fine," Brendon said, looking out toward the fields. "I don't mind doing it for him. I was even thinking—when I was out in the woods, today. It's Midwinter soon," Brendon said, drawing a deep breath. "I know we don't have much, but we could at least have a meal together." 

Spencer nodded slowly. "There's a few stands of pine trees out near the western hay field," Spencer said. "That's where we usually cut the Yule tree. And there's holly and mistletoe out there as well, or there was last year." Brendon was only half-listening. They could have a meal here, in the parlor, Brendon realized, letting his eyes rest on a side-table with two leaves neatly stored Ryaneath it. A real Southern meal, with real place settings, not just the wooden ones they used every day. It wouldn't cost anything except food from their stores and a chicken or two, not if Brendon could scrounge up what he needed from the storage room. 

"Do you think," Brendon said. "Do you think, if I cooked a real Midwinter meal, that he'd like it? I know how to make everything, and it wouldn't cost much. I wouldn't make a lot. We could serve it up here, and I could decorate a bit, and then—"

Spencer half-smiled at him then, his expression a strange mixture of sadness and resignation. "Don't worry about the cost," Spencer whispered, shaking his head and sitting down heavily in one of the armchairs. A plume of dust jumped into the air when he sat down. "Brendon, it's—it's the last Midwinter he'll ever have. If we need to sell off a few things to make it perfect, we will."

-

They moved Ryan into his new room three days later. Brendon had been concerned about the stairs, but when everything was finally ready, Jon had simply wrapped Ryan in blankets and lifted him bodily, holding him to his chest as they carefully ascended the staircase. Ryan was awake but entirely confused; he'd slept most of the days following his sudden hemorrhage, waking up only to pick at his food and cough and shuffle back and forth to the bathroom. His coughs were still bloody, and he was still ice-cold to the touch, but he hadn't had a repeat of that terrible night. Brendon was grateful.

Jon paused at the top of the stairs, his eyes widening. Brendon allowed himself a small trickle of pride. He'd spend the past three days literally cleaning the house from top to bottom. The wood floors all shone with a new coating of hardened beeswax; all the rugs had been beaten out, and all the drapes and curtains and sheets had been washed and dried by the fire. Brendon had wiped down all the wooden furniture with damp rags; he had polished the small mirror on the wall in Ryan's new bedroom. He had even spent a few hours in the storage room, poking around furtively as he pulled out old candles and knick-knacks in his quest to find the chest that contained Mrs. Walker's old table settings. The rooms were now furnished with a strange assortment of items that Brendon had found and taken a liking to. He'd thought it might make them a little more welcoming, and he was rewarded in that respect when Jon carried Ryan into his new bedroom. Ryan smiled faintly at the pile of his books on the endtable while Jon tucked him in, and then he let out a small, delighted noise when he saw the collection of tiny porcelain animals Brendon had placed next to the books. They were mended and chipped, and the horse in particular was missing his left hind leg, but Ryan reached out and brushed a careful hand over them as though they were made of gold. 

"Jon," Ryan whispered, still smiling. "Jon, do you remember? These were your mother's."

"I know," Jon said, swallowing. He looked both sad and happy; Brendon felt a pang of guilt at the unintended consequences of his actions, but then Jon was visibly shaking himself and smiling widely at Ryan. "Do you remember the time she locked them up so you wouldn't play with them?"

"And Spencer snuck out and stole the key and we got to them anyway," Ryan rasped, and Brendon heard a bark of laughter from outside the door. Spencer came back in, loaded down with the rest of Ryan's bedding, settling it around him. While they continued telling the story, Brendon snuck back downstairs. He suddenly felt out of place, in a way that he hadn't experienced in months. Somehow, he had forgotten that the rooms he had spent so much time cleaning weren't new to all of them, only to him. They were thick with shared memories for Ryan and Spencer and Jon, and Brendon didn't want to interfere. 

Brendon waited until Spencer and Jon had come back downstairs, until Jon had stopped to give him a tight hug and to thank him profusely for all of his work. Spencer had just squeezed Brendon's shoulder, meeting his gaze with a small smile. They were working together to keep their plans for Midwinter a secret; Spencer had proposed that it be a surprise to Ryan _and_ Jon, and Brendon had agreed. If there was anyone else who deserved Brendon's thanks during the past year, it was Jon, who had bought a starving, half-broken slave he couldn't afford because he couldn't bear to watch him suffer. 

Brendon waited until they left to go check on the livestock, and then he climbed the stairs cupping a bowl of broth in both hands. Ryan's door was partially closed, but when Brendon gently pushed it open, he saw that Ryan was wide awake and watching the trees through the window. 

"I missed seeing the sunlight dance along the mountains," Ryan whispered, without any preamble. He smiled at Brendon, and reached out a hand to grasp weakly at Brendon's wrist. "You didn't have to do this." 

"I wanted to," Brendon said. He perched on the corner of Ryan's bed, and held the broth out to him, guiding it carefully down until Ryan could settle it on the bed and wouldn't have to hold it up in the air. Ryan drank it in small sips, pausing every so often to breathe in thick, wheezing gasps. Spencer had settled a red coverlet on top of the cream one, at Ryan's request. 

Brendon looked out the window. The sun shone in, refracting through the thick window panes and illuminating Ryan with a slightly unearthly glow. When he looked back, Ryan was watching him. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear and focused.

"Come sit with me," Ryan said quietly, grasping at Brendon's wrist again.

"I am sitting with you," Brendon smiled. Ryan shook his head, picking up the broth and holding it out to Brendon until Brendon reached out and took it from him, setting it on the bedside table.

"Over here," Ryan said, shifting over a little bit so Brendon could sit next to him against the pillows. "Just—please. Just for a little while."

Brendon went willingly. He still had work to do, but then, he always did. He sat back against the pillows, old and slightly musty but still soft. Ryan curled into him, seeking warmth. Brendon shifted so Ryan could lie against his side, so he could wrap an arm around him and hold him close.

"You cold?" Brendon asked, when they were finally settled.

"I'm always cold," Ryan said. Brendon nodded. They stared out the window in silence, just resting. Outside, Brendon could hear the call of a magpie, settled somewhere close to the house. Ryan's eyelashes were tipped with sunlight. Dust motes rose and danced in the sunbeams.

"Have you ever thought," Ryan said, soft and slow. "I just—maybe if things were. Different. I think maybe, we—"

"Ryan, don't," Brendon said, swallowing hard. "Please." He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of Ryan's breath. He knew what Ryan was saying, hidden in the spaces between the words. That as much as Ryan was sick, as much as he was dying, he didn't call for Jon or Spencer when he needed warmth. That Brendon was the one he chose to hold him when he needed someone to hold on to. That there was no explanation for this—no logic that would make it make sense. Brendon had known Ryan for three months, barely, and yet watching him slowly succumb to his illness hurt somewhere deep down inside. It hurt with a sort of sharpness that occasionally left Brendon breathless—the knowledge of what might have been, of all the possibilities they left unspoken between them.

"I just wanted to say it," Ryan said. His voice was clear, like he was focusing very carefully on the words. Like he was making each one count.

"You don't have to," Brendon whispered. He tightened his arms around Ryan. They listened to the call of the magpie in silence.

-

Brendon woke early on the morning of Midwinter Eve. The sun had still barely risen when he started kneading the dough for the cinnamon bread, and by mid-morning he'd completed most of the preparations for everything he'd need to make that afternoon. Despite everything, there was a festive atmosphere in the house, one that Brendon gladly embraced. Jon was at the house today, watching over Ryan while Brendon cooked. He had snuck upstairs early in the morning as Brendon was making tea, and Brendon heard several suspicious thumps and bangs from the second floor as he worked. When Jon finally came back downstairs around noon, he was covered in dust and there was a holly leaf clinging to the sleeve of his shirt. Brendon resolved not to ask any questions. He shook his head, smiling slightly, and picked the leaf off of Jon's sleeve as Jon walked past.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Brendon raised his head curiously as Jon hurried across the room, and then burst out laughing when Jon opened the door. There was a fir tree entirely filling the doorway, with Spencer's knitted cap peeking out from behind the top.

"I see the forest is coming to dinner," Brendon said, entirely straight-faced.

"If she feels like co-operating," Spencer grumbled, still trying to push the fir tree through the doorway. Jon pulled while Spencer pushed, and after a moment they had managed to drag the tree inside and shut the door.

"Do you need help?" Brendon asked, and then thought better of it. He looked down at himself; he'd been cleaning the chicken and he was a bit slimy at the moment.

"No!" Jon said, and then snapped his mouth shut. Brendon raised one eyebrow. "No help needed, we'll be fine, just keep cooking," Jon mumbled, still trying to drag the tree up through the stairwell. _More surprises_ , Spencer mouthed to Brendon, as he walked past. Brendon raised his eyes to the ceiling, nodding his head toward Ryan's room and mouthing back _isn't he asleep? and why can't I help?_

Spencer grinned a little at Brendon. "You'll see," he leaned in to whisper. "Jon's on a mission."

"Should I be nervous?" Brendon whispered back. Jon Walker had many good qualities, but Brendon knew for a fact that housekeeping skills weren't included on the list.

"Probably," Spencer said, shrugging, and then squeezed Brendon's shoulder when Brendon made to put down the knife and go see what, exactly, was happening upstairs. "I'm supervising, it's fine," Spencer said. "I promise he won't burn the house down."

"I know he won't burn the house down," Brendon said, turning back to the chicken. "It's everything else I'm worried about." Just then, there was a crash from upstairs, as though something large and heavy had fallen over.

"Right," Spencer said, his eyes widening. "Carry on. It smells delicious. I'll be back." Brendon watched as he hurried up the stairs, and shook his head as he smiled ruefully.

-

By six, Brendon was almost ready. He surveyed the dishes laid out in front of him critically. Originally he'd been planning on making do with whatever they had, coming up with a few new ways to season the vegetables and thickening a stew, but Jon had come home the day before clutching a bag and something wrapped in butchering paper that he refused to open for Brendon while Spencer was in the room. Brendon had followed him into the pantry, expecting perhaps some winter pears from the Wentz's orchard; instead, Jon had pulled out an assortment of spices and ingredients and an entire chicken. There were small packets of saffron and turmeric and coriander and cinnamon, wrapped in paper and tied with string. There was a bag of black cardamom pods, and another of olives and dates. There were tiny Satsuma oranges and winter pears and a large bag of dried lentils. Brendon felt his mouth drop open slightly.

"How did you," Brendon mumbled. "How—Jon—?"

"I called in a few favors," Jon said, looking anywhere but Brendon. "You don't need to worry about it. And then I just asked the shopkeeper to give me whatever he had that came from the South," Jon said. "Or the West. Or the East. Honestly, I'm not quite sure what everything is, but he seemed to think it was all necessary."

"It's amazing," Brendon said. He ran his fingers over the tiny packages. They smelled like his mother's kitchen. "Jon—"

"I said, don't worry about it," Jon said, looking embarrassed. "It's the least I can do."

Brendon had simply nodded. "It will be delicious," he said firmly. "I'll make sure of it." He'd roasted half the chicken with some of the pears and dates; the darker meat he'd chopped up and turned into a thick curry. He'd made cinnamon bread for dessert and flatbread for the meal itself, using the bottom of one of the kettles placed upside-down in the fire instead of a _comal_. There were roasted sweet potatoes and seasoned cauliflower and more curried lentils. It had been a long time since he'd made so many different dishes by himself, but he found that he knew the recipes without having to think about it.

"Brendon," Spencer called out, making his way down the stairs. "We're almost ready up here. How much longer do you—oh," Spencer said, his eyes widening a little. "Wow."

Brendon looked at Spencer's expression, and then back to the spread before him. The individual dishes weren't particularly large, but looking out at everything, it _did_ seem like a lot of food.

"I may have gotten slightly carried away," Brendon admitted, blushing. "But all of it will keep, at least."

"It looks amazing," Spencer said sincerely. "I'll help you carry everything up." Brendon picked up the dish with the roasted chicken, and followed Spencer upstairs. Ryan's door was closed when he walked by it, but he could see a glimmer of candlelight coming from the parlor at the end.

He walked in and nearly dropped the chicken.

Spencer and Jon had outdone themselves. The room was entirely decorated with fir branches and holly leaves and mistletoe; someone had cut up the taller wicked candles into smaller ones and tucked them in between all the branches on the rough wooden mantelpiece. The fir tree was in the corner, decorated with pinecones and berries and tiny pieces of paper folded into birds and stars and moons. Brendon set down the chicken on the table, and then immediately went over to brush his fingers over them in fascination.

"Beannachtaí an tSéasúir," Jon said, quietly. _Happy Midwinter_. The traditional greeting, always given in the old tongue.

"I've never seen anything like these before," Brendon said, straightening up. "How did you make them?"

"They're just folded paper," Spencer put in, coming back with another armful of dishes. "We used to make them for the house when we were younger. Mrs. Walker taught us. We thought Ryan would like them."

"He will," Brendon said. Even without knowing the history, the first thing he'd thought upon seeing them was how perfect they were for Ryan. He took a deep breath.

"Is it time to go get him?" Brendon said, and Jon nodded. "I'll bring him in," Jon said. 

Ryan insisted on walking from his bed to the door of the parlour. He moved slowly and carefully, and Brendon knew he was trying to hide a grimace. But then his face changed—he looked at the room, entirely transformed, at the dishes steaming on the sideboard and the tree covered in ornaments. "Oh," Ryan breathed softly. His eyes were wide and amazed.

"Beannachtaí an tSéasúir," Jon said, again, and squeezed his arm gently. Between the two of them, Brendon and Jon, they settled Ryan in one of the large armchairs, covering him with blankets and tucking them in around the edges. 

"Are those—" Ryan said, lifting one hand to point at the tree, and Spencer smiled. "Here," he said, picking a few of the paper birds off and bringing them over to Ryan. Ryan brushed his fingers over them gently, smiling.

Dinner was quiet, a joyful night tinged with sadness. Brendon was determined that Ryan should have at least one night where he didn't have to think about his future, and he suspected Jon and Spencer felt the same. There was no talk of death, of winter, of cold. Spencer and Jon began telling stories as Brendon served up dinner. Not the kind of stories Ryan told, tinged with the magic of the elements—these were the ribald stories of the North, folktales and legends of the season, often with a rather inappropriate joke as a punchline. They were warm and honest tales, surprisingly funny at times, and Brendon found himself grinning at the one's he'd never heard as he dished out the meal.

Ryan insisted on trying at least a bite of everything, despite his usual lack of an appetite. "It tastes just like I remember," Ryan murmured to Brendon, while Jon and Spencer were engaged in telling a tale that required a back-and-forth conversation between a hapless innkeeper and a sly Midwinter traveler. Brendon squeezed his hand in response. Ryan's fingers were ice cold to the touch.

"But we've no more beds," Jon said, wide-eyed, playing the part of the confused innkeeper to a tee. "I can offer you a bed by the fire, six silver, but that's all we have."

"A bed by the fire, eh?" Spencer said, winking at Brendon. "And who'll I share it with, then?"

"Oh, you won't have to share," Jon said, falling over himself in mock-helpfulness. "We have the very best accommodations here, I can assure you, sir. If only we weren't so crowded—"

"Oh, I don't see that that's such a problem," Spencer said, looking Brendon up and down. 

Brendon hid a smile. He'd been warned that he needed to play the part of a jaded _huo_ , who knew exactly what Spencer-the-traveler was up to. "I think I might have a couple more silver in my purse for a _warmer_ bed," Spencer said, with a lascivious look.

"Oh, of course sir," Brendon said, batting his lashes. "I can assure you your bed will be _quite_ warm." Ryan snorted in amusement, his eyes dancing, and when they finally came to the punchline—Brendon, of course, warmed the traveler's bed by setting fire to it—he was full-out laughing at their impressions.

"Tom never quite got the point of that story," Ryan whispered to him, still smiling. "It was almost funnier, because he always looked so confused by the ending. But you've got it down perfectly."

"They tell that one in the South, too," Brendon said, shifting a little closer so Ryan could lean on his shoulder. Granted, he'd never heard of the Master of the house playing a part in the Midwinter tales, but Jon obviously knew them all by heart.

They stayed for another hour or two, telling stories and drinking strong peppermint and cinnamon tea, until Ryan could no longer contain his shivering. Brendon could feel Ryan's shoulders shaking next to his; he was still smiling, but he was obviously exhausted.

"Bed," Brendon said firmly, after the last tale was finished. He stood up and held his arms out, and Ryan slowly, painfully, got up. He stood so Brendon was carrying most of his weight, so that Brendon could wrap an arm around him and help them shuffle forward. Brendon looked over to see Jon and Spencer watching them silently. He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn't sure what—but Spencer just smiled at them, a sweet smile tinged with sadness. Jon stayed silent, but his eyes were kind.

"Good night," Spencer said, to both of them. "Beannachtaí an tSéasúir." Brendon thought that perhaps he was saying something else, too, something hidden inside the familiar words. It made him seize up inside, a sudden and irrational fear that they _knew_ —but they couldn't, Brendon told himself firmly. There was nothing to know. He was just helping Ryan off to bed, that's all.

They made their way slowly down the hallway, and when Ryan was finally wrapped up in bed, he gave Brendon a quiet, pleading look. Their fingers were still tangled together, although Brendon didn't remember that happening in the first place.

"Stay," Ryan said softly, breathing the words out. "Please?"

"Ryan—" Brendon said, and then he fell silent. What would it hurt? They would only be sleeping. He'd be able to keep Ryan warm all night, if he stayed.

Brendon nodded carefully, toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the bed. When he slipped under the covers, still in his clothing, Ryan was ice-cold to the touch, a sharp cold that felt almost like his skin was burning under Brendon's palm. "Ryan," Brendon said, frowning in concern, but Ryan just shook his head, burrowing closer into Brendon's arms. His chest rose and fell, and Brendon could hear how his breath rattled in his chest with every inhale. There were specks of blood on his pillow.

"We shouldn't have done it," Brendon said softly, stricken by guilt. "Now you're even worse than you were a few hours ago." 

Ryan shook his head. "It was worth it," Ryan said. "I never thought we'd have another Midwinter like that again." He took a deep breath, trying to get more air into his lungs. "That _I'd_ have another Midwinter like that," Ryan said, and his voice was barely a whisper. He was still shaking in Brendon's arms, full-body shivers that no amount of heat seemed to fix.

"Just sleep," Brendon said softly, rubbing his hands over the long line of Ryan's back. He knew Ryan needed to talk about it, to come to terms with it, but he still couldn't. "You'll be okay. Just go to sleep. Just rest."

-

When Brendon woke the next time, it was because Ryan wasn't breathing.

His brain felt sluggish and slow, and Brendon struggled to surface. He knew there was something wrong, but the room was almost pitch-black and he was disoriented. There was something cold and very still in the bed with him. He reached out a hand, fumbling in confusion, and then he felt something soft and ice-cold. Ryan's hand. Brendon immediately felt a sense of utter panic seizing him. No. No, not now, not today, not with so little warning—

"Ryan," Brendon whispered frantically, gathering him up and risking the very beginnings of a spark in his fingertips, raising their temperature just in case it woke Ryan up. "Ryan, Ryan, no, no—" Ryan was still and silent in his arms. Brendon brushed his hair back from his face, and he felt a strange wetness on his fingertips. It was the ice, Brendon realized. His fingers were so hot he was melting the thin sheen of ice on Ryan's skin, and still Ryan wasn't waking up.

"No," Brendon whispered. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes, felt something large and heavy clenching in his chest. He couldn't breathe properly. He didn't know what to do. Somewhere deep down inside he felt as though Ryan hadn't completely left him yet, as though there was still hope—but if he left to get Jon and Spencer, he was afraid he'd loose Ryan completely. He was so frantic that he barely noticed the strange glow in the room, growing infinitesimally brighter until he looked over—and then his heart stopped in his throat.  
She was watching them. She was tall and unearthly, and Brendon could see right through her.

"No," Brendon said, feeling one tear slip down his cheek. If one of the Shui's messengers had been sent for Ryan, it was over. He'd only ever seen the messengers sent for other _huo_ , but he knew who she was. Not the _Shui_ , but a small part of her—a _shui-at_ , come to take Ryan home.

"Please," Brendon said, beyond the point of caring. There was no way she could hear him, but he had to at least try. "No, no, you can't, just a little more time—"

The _shui-at_ ignored him. She reached out her hand, coming ever closer. Brendon continued to babble, continued to plead. He knew it was useless, but he couldn't seem to stop, couldn't let himself let go of Ryan.

"I'll keep you warm," Brendon whispered, drawing back. "You can't take him yet, please, you can't—I can keep you warm, I promise, I know you're so cold—I know she sent you—please, please, you can't—"

At the last minute, she paused, her hand hovering over Ryan's limp palm. Brendon heard the words in his head, softly spoken, kind and yet still fierce _You cannot change the past._

"I'll give you anything," Brendon pleaded. "Anything."

_You cannot change the future._

"Take me instead," Brendon whispered. His cheeks were wet. "Take me. Call your sister. She'll come to you if you take me. You miss her, don't you? I know you do, it's in all the stories. She gave me her gift—I'll give it to you—"

The _shui-at_ stayed still, her hand still hovering over Ryan's arm. His face was entirely expressionless, but Brendon thought he heard a note of confusion in her voice inside his head.

_You would give up your life for the boy? You would give everything? To me?_

"Yes," Brendon said, seizing on that one thread of hope. " _Yes,_ anything, everything, take it all, just make him better, I'm—It would be worth it, I'm so _tired_ , sometimes I feel like I don't have anything else to give to anyone else, but he _does,_ he just needs to remember what it's like to live again, and I can't—I can't—"

And in that moment, as the words left his lips, Brendon knew it was working.

It should have startled him, how easily the idea settled in his chest. How he'd fought tooth and nail with Ryan over the same thing, but it wasn't—Brendon knew, in a moment of absolute clarity, that it wasn't the same. Ryan had a family who loved him. Ryan had Spencer and Jon and if he could get better—there was so much more left for him, once he had his strength back. He was beaten down, but he wasn't broken.

 _I cannot take you,_ the shui-at said, after a long pause. _She will not allow it._

"You can," Brendon pleaded. He had made his decision—and now she was going to back out on him? "You can, please—"

 _No,_ the spirit said, sounding sad. She reached out for Ryan's hand, and Brendon didn't think—he just reacted on instinct. He pushed his palm into the spirit's hand, forcing her back from Ryan. The cold of her took his breath away—it was a deep, deep frost, and Brendon almost couldn't get a spark going. He pushed as hard as he could, drawing everything he had up and out, shoving his other hand into the outline of her form. He could barely feel the flames, but he could see them, licking at his hands.

 _What—?_ The spirit whispered. _What are you doing?_

"Tell her," Brendon ground out, his voice catching. He was rapidly losing feeling in his hands and arms. The combination of the cold and the heat—the two kinds of magic that were never supposed to be able to co-exist—was overwhelming. "Show her. Call out and let her _feel_ it. _This is what she can have."_

The _shui-at_ flickered in and out of view as he pushed forward. Brendon held his breath, and then he heard—

_She says yes._

-  
-

_**It has been a long time since I met someone as determined as you.** _

Brendon opened his eyes—or at least, he felt as though he opened his eyes. Everything felt hazy. When he looked down, he saw a shadow of himself, a thin, wavering outline.

The person speaking to him was a girl. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight, but when Brendon looked at her, he knew at once that she was the _Shui._ Her voice sounded like thunder, but he was strangely unafraid.

 _She's much less scarier than the stories,_ Brendon thought to himself.

 _ **You would prefer another form?**_ The _Shui_ said, and then—it seemed as though Brendon blinked, and she was a warrior, fierce and proud, commanding the lightening and the rain, holding a razor-tipped spear to his throat. _**Is this how you wish to see me?**_

Brendon swallowed. He blinked again, and she returned as a small child, a girl with large hazel eyes and hair the color of snow.

 _ **You see now what you have tangled yourself in** , _The _Shui_ said. _**I do not know what to do with you. My sister is coming.**_

 _Take me,_ Brendon thought. _Anything, anything you want. I don't care what you do with me as long as you save_ Ryan _._

_**That is old magic. We must both be present. I do not know if she will agree. She may kill you for what you have done, for how you have interfered**._

_Anything,_ Brendon thought. _I'm ready_. He wondered if he was dreaming all of this, caught in the veil between the two worlds. He wondered if he was already dead. Everything seemed very far away.

He waited.

-

The _Huo_ came in a blaze of fire and light, wrapped in the smell of wood-smoke and the heat of the everlasting embers. Brendon caught a glimpse of a towering figure, a women made entirely of flame and light, before she, too, was a child standing before him. Her eyes were black, and her hair was the color of fallen maple leaves. A strong wind began to blow.  
The sisters did not touch. Brendon watched as they seemed to flow in and out of one another, pushing and pulling, silhouette upon silhouette, fire and ice. They would seem to inhabit the same space—but when he looked again, they would be far away, circling ever closer. He heard snatches of words over the wind— _ **you were a fool to take him—sister, you must understand—cannot unmake what has been made whole** —. _He wished he had any idea what everything meant. He wished he knew where Ryan was.

_**If we could—they could mend the division—together, they could—** _

The sisters were standing before them. Brendon swallowed, and held out his hands.  
 _Take it all,_ he thought. _Take anything you need. Just save him._

 _ **Did you think you have anything to offer that we do not already have?** _ The _Huo_ said to him. _ **You are my child. I am everything you are, and more.** _

_There must be something,_ Brendon thought, pleading with everything he had. _Something I can give._

_**We cannot change the past.** _

_Then send me back,_ Brendon said, feeling an overwhelming sadness overtake him. _Send me back so I can bury him in the waters._ They would set Ryan out to sea, on a raft made of willow branches. It was at least a week's journey. The salt water of the ocean never froze—it would swallow him up whole. Brendon felt his heart clench in his chest.

_**We never said there was not a way.** _

_Then what is it, TELL ME,_ Brendon thought. He wanted to scream with frustration.

_**For every hour, every minute that he lives past his time—you must trade his life for yours. An even trade. When you die, so will he. We cannot change the past, but we can weave your futures together. That is all.** _

_Yes,_ Brendon thought instantly. _Yes. I will._

_**You will keep him alive? You will give up your part of your birthright for him?** _

_Yes,_ Brendon thought again. If it would save Ryan, that was all that mattered. They wouldn't have forever, but then, no one did. 

_**Then it will be done.** _

_**-**_  
When Brendon opened his eyes again, the sun was rising. 

He was slumped over on the bed, on top of the covers. Everything in him ached. He raised his head up, blinking, squinting in the sunlight—-and then he remembered.

"Ryan," Brendon whispered to himself frantically, crawling across the bed and tripping over the covers in his haste. "Ryan, Ryan—" Ryan was still asleep, his chest rising and falling under the blankets. 

The ice was gone. 

Brendon swallowed nervously, and then brushed a hand over Ryan's hair. Ryan mumbled something, and rolled over. Brendon reached out again, shaking his shoulder, and then Ryan woke with a start. 

"Wha—?" Ryan mumbled, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face.

"It worked," Brendon whispered to himself. Ryan blinked at him. 

"What worked?" Ryan said, and then he froze. Brendon watched as he took several deep breaths, his lungs entirely clear. He waited as Ryan shifted a little on the bed, watched his eyes widen as he was able to do so without pain. 

"Brendon," Ryan whispered, his eyes wide and amazed, and then Brendon fell on top of him, laughing in delight. 

"It worked," Brendon whispered. He tucked his face into the crook of Ryan's neck. Ryan shook his head in confusion. "What worked?" Ryan said. "Brendon, I don't—what happened?"

"She came for you," Brendon said, sobering slightly. "The _shui-at_ came for you in the night."

"But I feel healthy," Ryan said, still flexing his fingers in amazement, marveling at how it no longer ached. "If she came for me, I should be dead. But I feel—"

"Ryan, listen to me," Brendon said, sitting up. He took Ryan's face in his hands. "I made a deal. With the _Shui_ and the _Huo_. They came for you, and I just couldn't—I told them to take me instead."

"No," Ryan hissed, his eyes widening. "Brendon, you idiot, no, you can't have—"

"But she didn't," Brendon said, the words tripping out over one another. "She said I had nothing to give her that she didn't already have. She said even they couldn't change the past, but they could change the future." Ryan was completely still in his arms.

"Brendon, what have you done?" Ryan whispered. His voice was small and scared. "Tell me." 

"An even trade," Brendon said. "Year for year, hour for hour." He kept his gaze steady on Ryan's face, and he saw the minute Ryan understood. 

"No," Ryan whispered. "No, Brendon—"

"It's already done," Brendon said. "I'll live half as long as I should, but you'll be with me. And you won't be sick, you won't be in pain—see, you can already feel it, they're working their magic. You'll be weak for a while but you're already starting to heal—"

"Brendon," Ryan said, for the hundredth time, amazed and sad and overwhelmed all at once.  
They looked at each other in silence—and then, suddenly, there were no more words to be said. There was the rhythm of Ryan's breath in Brendon's mouth, soft and warm and alive. There were Ryan's hands tangled in Brendon's hair, and the tears at the corners of his eyes when he pulled away. 

"I love you," Brendon whispered. "I'm not sorry."

Ryan swallowed hard, and pulled Brendon down for another kiss. 

Outside, the magpie was still singing.


End file.
